


One Day This Will Make You Proud

by koritsimou



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Battle of the Bands, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koritsimou/pseuds/koritsimou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's pretty sure the upcoming Battle of the Bands is necessary for his survival of junior year - a light at the end of the tunnel. Now, if only there was a poster by his locker advertising a miracle cure for his ailing grades, or one boasting a step-by-step guide to navigating oneself from vague acquaintance to bandmate (or to some optional bonus endpoint with touching).</p><p>aka. a high school au, with occasional instruments</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Guess who has the best news,” Grantaire crows, as he appears out of nowhere and slams a sheet of A4 paper onto the table that hosts his friends. Joly gives a small shriek which startles Bossuet out of his chair, Bahorel looks up, Eponine doesn’t even flinch. “Guess,” Grantaire says again, since no one has.

“Oh my god, I think I’m having palpitations,” Joly mutters, with one hand clutching his chest.

Bahorel pulls Bossuet off the ground by his shirt. Joly grabs his hand as soon as he’s reseated and presses it to his chest. “Feel.”

At Grantaire’s whine of “Guuyyys,” Eponine asks, “Is it you?” without looking up from her lunch.

“Yes, it is me,” Grantaire beams, once indulged. He slides the poster under his hand across the table to Eponine and Bahorel. Bossuet reads it upside down as Joly takes his own pulse beside him. Grantaire flops into an empty chair and steals a few fries from Eponine’s plate as they read.

“A Battle of the Bands?” Bahorel is the first to look up. He looks intrigued. Grantaire’s grin widens and he nods more than necessary, curls bouncing with the movement.

“What d’you think, ‘Ponine?” Grantaire asks, and everyone looks up for her answer. Grantaire does his best not to look disgruntled; it’s his band, but Eponine does technically speak for half of it.

“This is district wide,” she says, tapping the poster with a short, red fingernail.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, eyes flashing his excitement. “Come on, Ep, we’d clean up if it was just the school. It’d be too easy.”

Eponine considers this, and Grantaire can see her smile even before it starts tugging at her lips. “I do like a little competition.”

“And what’s a little competition without a prize?” Grantaire ponders aloud, delighted.

“There’s a prize?” Bahorel asks, dropping his eyes to the poster again.

“It’s not much,” Grantaire allows. “The whole thing is a charity fundraiser or something. But it’s recording time we wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford.” And they’ve been wanting to put out an EP for a while now.

There are nods and murmurs of agreement around the table and Bahorel says, “I’m sold.”

“My dear Eponine,” Grantaire turns to his best friend. “What say you?”

“All in favour, say aye,” Eponine murmurs to herself, before grinning at Grantaire. “Aye.”

“Aye,” Grantaire echoes. “And Gav?” Grantaire enquires of their tiny drummer and Eponine’s little brother.

“He’d probably chew off his own finger if he thought it’d impress you. Of course he’s an aye.” Joly pales a little at the imagery, but Grantaire just laughs.

“And that’s why he’s my favourite Thenadier,” he grins, reaching over to steal some more of Eponine’s fries, but she pulls her plate out of reach.

“Not a chance, after that blatant but still disrespectful lie. Get your own.”

“I tried. But I think I’ve lost my wallet,” Grantaire says, playing for sympathy.

All eyes drift slowly to Bossuet, and he cries, “It’s not contagious!” when he realises, as he always does whenever his friends experience some of his characteristic bad luck.

“Fine,” Eponine relents, sliding the plate back at Grantaire’s puppydog eyes, which don’t actually work on her in the slightest, so Grantaire knows she’s really just doing it out of the goodness of her heart. He’s ready to mock her for that, when Joly asks, “Where did you last have it?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Might be in my locker,” Grantaire says, and something clicks in his mind. “Actually, I had gym last, I think it might have left it in the changing room locker.”

“You’re an idiot,” Eponine says fondly.

“Whatever,” Grantaire shrugs. “I’ve had other things on my mind. Do you think we should write some new material?”

Bahorel looks at Grantaire, over his burger. “Do we have time for that?”

“Did you read the poster or just stare at the pretty colours?” Eponine teases.

“The battle isn’t ‘til after Spring Break,” Bossuet explains.

“That’s kinda close to finals, isn’t it?” Joly points out. “Are you sure you can all afford the commitment?” He purposefully stares at his homemade tuna and cucumber sandwich as he says it, but Grantaire still knows it’s directed at him. Eponine is some sort of divine juggler, with how well she manages to balance schoolwork, the band, her Saturday job and pretty much raising her younger siblings; and despite never seeming to do any work, Bahorel is coasting through his classes, the bastard. Grantaire isn’t sitting so pretty. The only class he really cares about is Art, and it shows in his grades.

“We’ll be fine,” Grantaire assures him. “We have now ‘til break to focus on the band and then exams after.”

“But that’s my point,” Joly stares at Grantaire. “You’re not supposed to leave everything to the few weeks before the actual exams, R. I mean, this is our second last year, we should probably even be using Spring Break as a leave of study, not a vacation,” he says worriedly.

Your second last year, Grantaire thinks, remembering that some of his more neglected grades are starting to threaten his ability to graduate next year. “We’ll be fine,” Grantaire repeats.

Joly is offering to make him a study plan, when Eponine turns the conversation back to something of interest. “You realise if this thing is district wide,” she says, tapping on the poster again, “then TNG will be playing.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire jerks his head up, with a glint in his eye. “I do.”

Their conversation is rudely interrupted when the warning bell goes, followed by a chorus of groans from all around the cafeteria.

“We’ll talk later,” Eponine promises hurriedly. She stacks her plate on top of Bahorel’s and he accepts them with a grunt.

“We’re talking now,” Grantaire says, confused.

“Can’t. I’ve got Stats.” And yeah, that’s a blush. “Later.” She hefts her bag onto her shoulder and dashes off to her new favourite class.

“You didn’t go look for your wallet,” Joly reminds Grantaire, as he stuffs his collection of snap-lock tupperware into his bag.

“Oh, yeah. I’ll go after class, I guess,” Grantaire says, but he doesn’t.

Infact, Grantaire only remembers when lunch rolls around the following day. He dumps his rucksack at their usual table, pats himself down and comes up empty. Eponine slides her tray, loaded with pizza and fries, onto the table and sits.

“Fuck off,” she says, as soon as Grantaire looks at her, preparing to beg for scraps once again. “Just go look for your wallet. I’m sure beyond your lunch card it’ll be empty anyway. So it’s bound to be right where you left it. Not worth the effort of anyone stealing.”

Grantaire gives a put-upon sigh. “Fine.” He kicks his bag under the table and mutters “Keep me a seat,” over his shoulder as he leaves the dining hall.

\---------------------------

The lunch bell signals the start of Enjolras’ battle against the flow of the rest of the student body. It would likely carry him all the way to the cafeteria, and even for students heading off-campus there are closer exits than the main entrance of the school. He sticks close to the wall to make it through the torrent of teens rushing down the west stairs, and beyond that his path is blissfully clear.

Slipping into the school’s front office, he’s surprised to find it empty. Miss Grant, who lets Enjolras use the photocopier for school council business and personal projects alike, usually has lunch at her desk. He almost collides with her in the copier room.

“Oh,” she squeaks, startled. “Sorry, Enjolras,” she continues, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Mar- I mean, Mr Johnson needs these for next period. He swears up and down he dropped them in yesterday, but if he had, would I be doing them now?” She sighs, shaking her head. “What is it today?”

“Student Council agenda, but the meeting’s not ‘til Thursday, I can come back.”

“I’ll just be five minutes, you’re welcome to wait,” she offers, but Enjolras is already backing out of the small room.

“That’s okay, I’ll come back another time.”

Enjolras cuts quickly through deserted corridors to his locker, where he swaps binders and textbooks for his gym stuff. Juniors and seniors have access to the gym and pool outside of classes, but either it’s a well kept secret or few students care to take advantage of the fact. Enjolras swims every Tuesday - the only day the changing rooms aren’t used by a sports team over lunch - and he has never once had to share the pool.

He’s glad, he muses as he changes. He might be here for the exercise, but he gets more than that from it. When he’s in the pool, his only focus is stroke, stroke, stroke, breath. It’s like the water carries everything else away; there are no essay deadlines, no meeting agendas, no debates next month. It’s soothing, and it keeps him fit.

He only does ten lengths today, but he still feels all the better for it.

He still has to grab lunch before he meets Jehan to go over their English homework; an exercise comparing a poem and song of their choice. Which in Enjolras’ case had actually been a poem and song of Jehan’s choice. He hadn’t ever even heard the song before last week, but he’s listened to it so many times now that it regularly plays in his head unbidden. If he belts it out in the shower, well, that’s practically studying.

Enjolras shuts the shower off, gives his head a shake and wraps a towel around his waist, before slipping out of the shower cubicle. He freezes when he realises he isn’t alone.

He takes in dark curly hair and wide blue eyes. Enjolras doesn’t really know him, but he’s had classes with him. His mouth parts slightly. Enjolras thinks he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t. He looks... not surprised, but something akin to it. Enjolras frowns. The sound of the shower should have given away Enjolras’ presence. If anyone should be shocked, it’s Enjolras.

Enjolras gives him a hard questioning look, but the other boy doesn’t move. He probably misses Enjolras’ expression; he isn’t looking at his face. He’s definitely looking, though. Enjolras tightens his grip on his towel.

“You’re staring,” Enjolras says, after a too-long moment of silence.

\---------------------------

Grantaire hasn’t found his wallet but he’s found something better.

“You’re staring,” the dripping wet vision before him says.

Voice of an angel; face of an angel; body of an Olympic swimmer; _fucking unfair_ , Grantaire thinks, as he watches a droplet of water race down the planes of Enjolras’ chest and vanish, soaking into the towel held tight round his waist. “A little,” Grantaire manages.

“It’s _more than a little_ creepy,” Enjolras says, and of fucking course, it had to be Enjolras, because it couldn’t have been a normal human being, who Grantaire maybe would have been able to talk to without appearing mentally deficient.

“Sorry,” Grantaire mutters, tearing his eyes away from the other boy. He suddenly realises he is breaking every single rule of the guys’ changing room (well, except for “you do not acknowledge accidental touching. it didn’t happen,” and thank god he isn’t close enough to touch him, or else it probably would be a fucking clean sweep). He scrapes a hand over his dumbfounded face. “Sorry, I just-” He waves a hand in the air in front of him, eyes still averted. He can hear Enjolras moving around now, gathering clothes which he carts into a dry shower cubicle to change in. “You have an incredible voice,” Grantaire says, and it’s easier now; easier to speak now he can’t see Enjolras, even though he’s still picturing him.

“Oh.” It’s a soft noise. Grantaire only just catches it over the sounds of Enjolras’ towelling off, sounds Grantaire is trying very hard not to focus on. “Um, thanks,” Enjolras says, awkwardly, and Grantaire realises that he’s managed to make himself even creepier. He isn’t just the guy who happened to catch Enjolras coming out of the shower. He’s the guy who stood outside listening first.

“I wasn’t-” Grantaire starts at the same time as Enjolras asks, “What are you doing down here?”

Grantaire is relieved, because he isn’t sure what he was actually about to say. He remembers he did have a reason for coming to the changing rooms, fortuitous musical discovery and leering aside. “ I, uh think I left my wallet down here. Or I hope I did, anyway. I had gym fourth period yesterday, and then couldn’t pay for my lunch, so.”

“Have you checked with the main office?” Enjolras asks, over the snick of the cubicle lock as he exits.”If you lost it yesterday, someone’s probably handed it in.”

Grantaire wants to answer “yes” snipily, but he hasn’t. He stares at Enjolras, now wearing jeans and a burgundy button down that he fills perfectly. It’s entirely possible that he looks just as good clothed as he did in a towel. “I should do that, huh?”

“Probably,” Enjolras agrees. He looks fluffy. His normally neat curls are in wild disarray, towel-dried, but still damp - a shade darker than their norm. It makes him seem softer. He sits on a bench to dry his feet, and slips a soft pair of maroon socks on, raising an eyebrow when Grantaire drops onto the bench opposite him.

“So, I don’t know if you’ll have seen the posters or heard about it, but there’s a battle of the bands happening at the community centre at the beginning of next term and uh, see, I’m in a band,” and oh god, Grantaire sounds like he is seriously mentally lacking. This is maybe the single greatest and worst day of his life all at once.

“Um, that’s cool,” Enjolras says, as he jams his feet into a pair of expensive looking boots. He doesn’t question why Grantaire is telling him this, but he does ask, “You’re going to enter?”

Enjolras is just being polite, but his interest, even feigned, sets a fire in one half of Grantaire’s soul, excitement flaring high, but the other half is so permanently dampened it doesn't quite catch. Enjolras will say no. He knows this, but he starts brainstorming ways to change his mind.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, ignoring the idea brewing in the basest part of his mind. He reminds himself that to Enjolras, they have only just met. (He may vividly remember the five times they have previously spoken in the past three years, but he doesn't pretend to himself for a second that Enjolras will.) He willfully ignores the voice suggesting that that only makes it easier, easier to offer, and easier to accept. They're not friends, they wouldn't have to talk about it, it wouldn't have to be awkward - a second voice interrupts to remind him that, _yes, it would, you're trying to recruit him to our fucking band_. It sounds awfully like Eponine, even down to the pronoun choice, like she's actually taken residence in a part of his subconscious. ( _Possessive adjective, dipshit. You’re gonna fail English._ ) He ignores her, and realises a beat too late that he's supposed to be ignoring the first voice, definitely his own, that's now telling him he'll never get a better chance than this deserted changing room, reminding him that he's always wanted to try this. The muscles in his legs twitch in anticipation of sliding to his knees.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras voice says from beside him, startling eyes open that Grantaire doesn't remember closing. Grantaire realises his hands are clenched into fists. He relaxes them and Enjolras touches his wrist lightly. "Grantaire?"

The word shoots straight to Grantaire's cock, even quiet and questioning as it's said. He's been half hard since Enjolras walked out of the shower, and interested even before that he admits to himself ( _that voice, fuck_ ), but Enjolras using his name and his fingers burning on Grantaire's skin are more than sufficient to finish what hormones and golden skin started. Grantaire thanks a god he doesn't believe in that Enjolras has moved beside him, and that he still wears his jeans baggy despite the fact that the skinny jean revolution happened years ago. He should be able to get away with this, as long as he manages to ignore it.

He means to answer "yes" but when he looks up at Enjolras, concern written in the features of his distractingly handsome face, he can't seem to form the word. He looks instead at the lockers opposite them, where Enjolras' towel lies in a discarded heap and a brown leather satchel is visible in an open locker, and scrambles for words. "Sorry,” he manages. "Zoned out for a minute there. No lunch remember. I'm running on the ghost of a coffee."

"You didn't have breakfast?" Enjolras asks, suitably convinced of Grantaire's wellbeing that he stands again, crossing the small space back to his belongings.

Grantaire hunches over his lap, elbows on knees, before he answers. "Nah. I'm not great at mornings."

"Clearly," Enjolras mutters.

"What's that supposed to mean?” Grantaire frowns, and this is good. Maybe if Enjolras is an asshole - which Grantaire knows he’s capable of, see those five previous exchanges which haven’t all been pleasantries - it will help distract him from how painfully good he looks. Jesus Christ, is he dressing for school or a catwalk in the morning, Grantaire thinks, as Enjolras tosses the school towel in the laundry.

“Oh. It’s just,” Enjolras looks at him a little guiltily, then gestures at him. “Your t-shirt’s inside out.”

Grantaire looks down at himself and finds that it’s true. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, fingering the flapping seams. “I can’t believe no one told me.”

“They probably didn’t want to embarrass you,” Enjolras says plainly, as Grantaire tugs his shirt off and pulls it right side out. He tries not to be disappointed by how completely unaffected Enjolras is by the display.

He pulls the t-shirt back over his head, his dark curls springing about upon their release. Enjolras has his bag slung over his shoulder now and Grantaire stands to follow him out the the changing room.

“Here’s the thing,” he says, pushing his unruly hair out of his face. “We’re really good.”

“We?” Enjolras questions, as he holds the door open for Grantaire to pass through.

“Thanks. Yeah, my band.”

“Right,” Enjolras nods.

Something about being out of the changing room and back in the altogether more public, though still deserted, corridor, puts Grantaire at ease. “Like not just high school good,” he says quickly, and without embarrassment. “We’re _really_ good. And I reckon we’ve got a good chance of winning the thing. Our only weak point,” he looks up to catch Enjolras’ eye, “is our vocals. I’m not a bad singer, but with a good one, we’d be clear favourites.” Enjolras nods again, as they round a corner. “So, what d’you think?” Grantaire prompts.

Enjolras looks a little surprised at the question, but answers, “I think you should find a stronger singer if you're serious about wanting to win.”

Grantaire grins and gives a small warm chuckle. “I’ve done that,” he says, and Enjolras looks at him in confusion. “I meant, what do you think about joining my band?”

Enjolras’ response is quick. “I’m flattered, I guess, but no thanks. Maybe you should hold auditions.”

Grantaire ignores the suggestion. “Why not? I know you’re not shy, you do debate, right?” Grantaire says casually, like he doesn’t know exactly how comfortable Enjolras is before a crowd, like he hasn’t attended every one of the debate team’s home bouts, hidden in the empty back half of the assembly hall, just to let Enjolras’ fiery passion wash over him as he crushes his competition.

“I am vocal. I am not a vocalist,” Enjolras replies, tersely. He keeps walking. Grantaire spins and walks backwards alongside him, to continue his wheedling. 

“Why can’t you be both? Be whoever you want to be and all that.”

“I _am_ being who I want to be. Just because I sing in the shower sometimes does not mean I have any wish to be a singer. I have greater aims.”

“Greater aims, sure. Changing the world, building a better tomorrow. I’m down with that. Very noble. And I will write a song about whatever social issues get you going - hell, I’ll write a riff to one of your own speeches, if you want. We’ll do nothing but protest songs, just say you’ll sing with us.”

“I have no desire to make a mockery of my causes before idle listeners.”

“Idle listeners?” Grantaire scoffs. He wants to poke fun at Enjolras’ bizarre turn of phrase, he really does, but first he wants to straighten things out. “Have you ever actually been to a gig?”

“I have heard live music performed, if that’s what you’re asking,” Enjolras says, coming to a halt.

Grantaire leans against the row of lockers and hopes he can maybe discover some common ground. “Who’d you go see?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“You’re in my way,” Enjolras says.

“Never heard of them,” Grantaire frowns. “Genre?”

“No. _You_ are in my way,” Enjolras repeats, gesturing at Grantaire. “That’s my locker.”

“Oh. Right,” Grantaire says, but he doesn’t move. “So what gigs have you been to?”

Enjolras’ fingers tighten on the strap of his satchel, knuckles turning white. He frowns and uses his slight height advantage and Grantaire’s laid-back slouch to stare Grantaire down. Grantaire just smiles expectantly. Enjolras frowns harder, his brows drawing together in a tight line. Grantaire nods encouragingly. Enjolras gives an exasperated sigh and looks thoughtful for a moment. “I saw the Huttonfield Orchestra in the summer,” he says at last. “Now will you move?”

Grantaire obliges but hovers at Enjolras shoulder as he opens his locker and rifles through his bag. “Okay, don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking classical music, but you’re the one who threw out the phrase “idle listeners” then you cite watching the Husterfield Orchestra as your be all and end all musical experience.” 

Enjolras’ hands still and he looks up at Grantaire. “That’s not what I said. And sitting still and giving something your full attention isn’t being idle,” Enjolras argues.

“And just because you’re physically moving, doesn’t mean you’re not also being moved - mentally, spiritually, emotionally, take your pick,” Grantaire retorts.

Enjolras purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. When he turns back to his locker, swapping his bagged swimmer gear for a few carefully selected books, Grantaire feels like he’s won a point in this game he seems to have started. He relaxes back against the lockers, revelling in his triumph.

“Regardless,” Enjolras says, as he rakes his eyes across the spines of the textbooks in his bag. “I’m quite fully booked for extra-curriculars this term, so thank you for your enquiry, but no, I won’t join your band.” He closes his satchel with a satisfied snap, signalling the end of the discussion. But Grantaire’s never been a big believer in signs.

“One practice,” he pleads. “Just one. You come, you hate it, fine. You can’t know ‘til you try.”

“I have to go. I’m supposed to be- I have stuff to do,” Enjolras says, frustrated, like he wants to leave but he doesn’t want to just walk away. Grantaire lets his gaze travel down Enjolras as he slams his locker shut.

“Fine, yeah, I’m sure you’re in general demand,” he murmurs. Enjolras looks up at that, his eyes wide, startled almost, Grantaire thinks. He smirks at him and says, “Just think about it, yeah?” before pushing off the wall of lockers, and starting off down the corridor to the cafeteria. He stops to watch Enjolras, when he hears the other boy start to move in the opposite direction. He watches his brisk walk and thinks on his “extra-curriculars” comment, wonders where the blond will be spending the rest of their dwindling lunch hour. When the subject of his musings reaches the end of the corridor, Grantaire shouts, “Thursday, after school. We have practice Thursdays, after school.”

Enjolras doesn’t break his stride, as he disappears through the double doors leading to the main entrance.

Grantaire pulls out his phone and types out a quick text to Eponine. **I didn’t find my wallet, but i found us a singer. R**


	2. Chapter 2

“I think it’s a good idea,” Combeferre says, the traitor, when Enjolras tells him and the rest of their friends about Grantaire’s proposal. They are congregated around Enjolras and Combeferre’s neighbouring lockers as they are every day at the end of classes.

“Why?” Enjolras asks, as he collects the books he will need for his homework tonight and a spare for extra reading.

“Oh my god. Rockstar Enjolras,” Courfeyrac grins wickedly, enjoying the whole thing far too much. “Just imagine. There will be freshmen girls fainting, sophomores sobbing, juniors...”

“Jittering?” Feuilly suggests.

“Jiving?” Courfeyrac tries. Enjolras rolls his eyes and turns to Combeferre to repeat his question, but Combeferre doesn’t notice. He is smiling indulgently at Courfeyrac.

“Gesticulating?” he joins in, and Enjolras wonders if he needs to find a new best friend. He looks Jehan and Marius over consideringly.

“Gesticulating starts with a G,” Marius says, and Courfeyrac nods.

“It’s better than jiving,” Combeferre defends and Courfeyrac feigns affront.

“Jabbering,” Jehan says, and Feuilly coos.

“I like jabbering,” he votes.

“I like gesticulating,” Courfeyrac says, switching allegiances easily, now that they’re taking sides. “Marius?”

Marius looks a little startled at being asked to not only voice an opinion, but cast the deciding vote. “Gesticulating,” he nods. An unsurprising result, given that Courfeyrac is the only one of their group that Marius has gotten to know particularly well, since starting their school at the beginning of the year. Enjolras closes his locker.

“Yes. Freshmen fainting, sophomores... what did I even say, again?” Courfeyrac asks, laughing.

“Freshman fainting, sophomores sobbing, juniors gesticulating,” Combeferre recounts and Feuilly cries, “Jabbering!” over the last word.

Jehan however, takes his defeat gracefully. He turns to Enjolras whilst the others discuss whether the seniors would even have a reaction to rockstar Enjolras, or if he’d be dismissed as “just a junior” and therefore unworthy of their attention.

“You do have a very commanding presence,” Jehan comments. “You’d make an excellent frontman, I’m sure.”

“Thanks, Jehan, but I really don’t have any interest in joining a band.”

Jehan nods, but counters, “It’s not really joining a band though, is it? Grantaire only asked you to sing for the battle, right?”

“Correct,” Enjolras confirms.

“Then what’s the harm?”

“I’m busy,” Enjolras states, shortly.

“You’re always busy. I think you were born busy. It’s never stopped you taking on more projects before. This is decidedly short-term and it’s something I think you’ll enjoy. I’m with Combeferre. I think it’s a good idea.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks.

“Because you like singing,” Jehan says, like it’s obvious. Enjolras watches Jehan twirl a long strand of hair around his finger and thinks about how he sometimes forgets that it is Jehan he’s known the longest, of all his friends. “And it’s okay to just do things for fun. And,” he adds, “if you’re going to run for student body president next year, then it can’t hurt to make a few more friends of our classmates.”

Enjolras smiles, grudgingly impressed. Jehan knows him well. “Do you know who’s in his band?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Jehan says. “I don’t really know him. We had art together, freshman year, before Mr Cook took him under his wing and whisked him off to advanced classes. You should ask Feuilly.”

Feuilly raises his ginger head at the sound of his name. His eyebrows follow it as Jehan explains, “Enjolras has some questions about Grantaire. You’re friends, right?”

“Sure.” Feuilly gives a lop-sided shrug. Jehan smiles and pats absently at Enjolras, ignoring his muttering (“I have one question, and it’s not even about him.”) as Feuilly explains. “We don’t really hang out, but we’re friendly.”

Jehan gives Enjolras a gentle shove. “Go, ask your questions, gather your intel. I know you’ll want to be prepared.”

Enjolras huffs but allows himself to be propelled towards Feuilly, as Courfeyrac asks, “For what?” with an exaggerated expression of confusion.

There’s a pause; Courfeyrac and Jehan are watching Combeferre expectantly, Marius looks confused but ready to explain the last few minutes of Enjolras and Jehan’s conversation. Enjolras turns to watch Combeferre too. Courfeyrac’s expectant gaze is tinged with pleading when Combeferre finally says, in an appropriately dramatic tone, “For the death of the king.”

“Why is he sick?” Courfeyrac asks immediately, delighted.

“No, fool. We’re going to kill him,” Combeferre drawls. “And Simba too.”

“Great idea! Who needs a king?” Courfeyrac crows.

“I don’t get it. What is happening?” Marius asks Jehan, as Courfeyrac grabs Enjolras with both hands and spins him around whilst singing.

“There’s nothing to get,” Jehan says. “They just really like the Lion King.”

“And Combeferre does a really good Scar,” Feuilly adds, over Combeferre’s assurances of sufficient sustenance. Jehan nods his agreement.

“Oh, it’s from a movie,” Marius says and suddenly there is silence.

“Wait, what?” Courfeyrac breaks it, pouncing on Marius. “Have you never seen the Lion King?!” he screeches. “How have you never seen the Lion King? ‘Ferre are you hearing this?”

Combeferre nods, dropping the steadying hand with which he had gripped Enjolras’ elbow post-twirling. Released, Enjolras sidles back over to Feuilly. Combeferre follows, still nodding as Courfeyrac calls for an emergency Disney night.

“Do you know who’s in his band?” Enjolras asks Feuilly, ignoring Combeferre’s knowing look.

Feuilly answers over Courfeyrac’s continued noises of incredulity. “Sure. Eponine, Bahorel and Eponine’s little brother.”

“Eponine,” Enjolras echoes hollowly. Two spots of colour appear high on Feuilly cheeks as he swallows and nods, but it’s Combeferre who comes to Enjolras’ aid.

“She was in our Physics class last year. Slim, long dark hair.” Combeferre watches Feuilly curiously as he describes the girl. Feuilly stares fixedly at Enjolras, who nods then aks, “And Bahorel?”

“Sits up the back in history, broke a window in first year.”

“Right,” Enjolras says.

“Is that enough-” Combeferre starts.

“Yeah, no, I think I know who they are,” Enjolras states, not needing to hear the end of Combeferre’s question to answer it.

“Are we all about ready to get out of here?” Jehan calls over everyone, lilac backpack slung over one shoulder. He has a point; the corridor is deserted except for their group.

There are murmurs and nods as everyone gathers their stuff and they make a move for the nearest exit en masse. As they walk, Courfeyrac details the plan for the emergency Disney night at his that was evidently not a joke. He begins quizzing Marius on what other holes there may be in his Disney education and demands someone get the wikipedia list of animated Disney films up on their phone. The results are shocking. Which is how Enjolras finds himself squeezed between Combeferre and Jehan on a couch in Courfeyrac’s lounge that night, watching the Lion King and Pocahontas back to back.

During the argument Courfeyrac and Feuilly have between the two films - Feuilly thinks both are too important to be a part of a double feature and whilst Courfeyrac sort of agrees he doesn’t think Feuilly has considered just how many films they have to get through to catch Marius up - Combeferre nudges Enjolras gently. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“About how we’re probably getting too old for Disney movie nights? Yeah, I am,” Enjolras says, and Jehan gives an impressive false gasp. “Kidding,” Enjolras assures, unnecessarily. “What am I thinking about?”

“The battle of the bands thing. You’re thinking about doing it.”

Enjolras has been thinking about it, and he does now again. Grantaire had said one practice, just to try it. If it’s weird or awkward, he says thanks but no thanks and walks away. And if he likes it, well it’s not like he’ll have to give up that much time for it, it’s just singing.

“Yeah, I am,” Enjolras says. He can feel Jehan’s smile where his head is resting on his shoulder. Argument won, Courfeyrac throws himself across their laps and hits play.

“Good,” Combeferre says over the familiar notes of When You Wish Upon a Star, only to shushed by the boy in his lap; a direction they all follow as the movie starts.

 

\----------

 

Grantaire makes it all the way to lunch the next day before Eponine tracks him down. To be fair to himself, he’s not exactly hiding; Wednesday’s are his least favourite day of the week, so to make them bearable he gets lunch off-campus every week and camps out between the sheds behind the library with it and a packet of cigarettes. Eponine is waiting for him when he returns from his jaunt. She drops her dying cigarette at the sound of him approaching and stands, crossing her arms as she grinds the butt into the dirt with her heel.

“Hope you had lunch before creeping out here to wait me out,” Grantaire says before she can start. He’s been ignoring her texts since he answered the first “who?” with “it’s a surprise” and he has no doubts he’s about to pay for that.

Eponine wavers. “I’ve eaten,” she assures him. “I wasn’t skipping lunch just to chase you down. But if that’s a meatball sub from Mama’s I’m changing my answer,” she says, as Grantaire unwraps the sandwich.

He dutifully passes it over and Eponine has the first bite. “Fuck,” she murmurs appreciatively. “I will never stop being angry that I never have a free period before or after lunch.”

“It’s a genuine tragedy,” Grantaire agrees sombrely. He reaches out an open hand for Eponine to return his lunch. “If good old Bill Shakes was alive today he might be inspired by this very-- are you gonna give me my sandwich back or what?”

“Are you going to tell me who you’ve added to our freaking band line-up without even consulting me?” Eponine counters, holding the precious sub close to her chest.

Grantaire rolls his eyes heavenward and gives a put-upon sigh. “I haven’t added anyone to the band. I just happened upon a really good singer, so I offered him like an audition of sorts. If after hearing him you still want him out - well, you’d be an idiot, but he’d still be out.”

Eponine is unmoved. “Who is he?”

“Give me my lunch back and I’ll tell you.”

Eponine takes another bite of the sub.

“Gaaah, okay. Okay. Will you at least like, put it down or something?” Grantaire gives in. “I’m kinda worried for its safety when I do tell you.”

Eponine narrows her eyes. “You think I’m gonna take revenge with it?”

“Or throw it at me. Drop it in surprise, maybe.” Grantaire shrugs.

“Who the hell did you invite into our band that could cause me to destroy something so perfect as a Mama’s meatball sub?” Eponine demands.

“Eponiiiine,” Grantaire whines. He’s stalling, but that doesn’t mean the concern for his lunch is any less genuine.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she mutters, dropping her bag and gently setting the sandwich atop it. “Go.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says and tenses.

There’s a pause as Grantaire waits for the fallout, but when the reaction comes it’s not what he expects; Eponine bursts out laughing.

“What?” Grantaire says moodily, then remembers his sandwich and snatches it up out of harm’s way, incase this is maniacal rage laughter. Though it sounds like regular laughing-at-Grantaire laughter to him.

“Oh my god,” Eponine says between breaths, once she’s stopped laughing. “What on earth would possess you to invite the guy you’ve been obsessed with-”

“I’m not-”

“-for _years_ to join your band, which occasionally plays songs that your bandmates do a valiant job pretending they don’t know you wrote about him?”

“To Be The Sun is based on an Atwood poem,” Grantaire says quickly.

Eponine rolls her eyes. “Great. Not even the song I was thinking of.” She has her hands on her hips when she asks, “Are they actually all just about him?”

“None of them are about him!” Grantaire very nearly endangers his own lunch with his emphatic response, so he tucks it back into the bag it came in and places it gently atop his schoolbag.

“Like My Name Is Troy,” Eponine says immediately.

“...is clearly about an attractive girl whose beauty has the same destructive potential as Helen of’s,” Grantaire explains as he straightens again.

“Uh huh.”

“Come on, you like that one. You thought the High School Musical reference was funny.”

“It was. And I do. I like all of them, ‘Taire. But that doesn’t mean this isn’t still the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“He’s a really good singer, Ep. I promise. Wait ‘til you hear him.” The schoolbell punctuates his assurances.

“Wait. How have _you_ heard him sing?” Eponine asks.

“No,” Grantaire refuses. “I have my lunch back, your lunch is over. That, you don’t get. That, is...” _mine_ , Grantaire thinks, desperately not picturing soft white towels and golden skin.

“A story for another day,” Eponine finishes.

“Yeah, maybe. The Tuesday after never,” Grantaire says and Eponine smiles.

“Okay,” she relents. “Just don’t come crying to me when this blows up in your face.” Her grin is beautiful and terrible.

“So you’re not mad?” Grantaire has to check.

Eponine laughs darkly. “I’m not mad. I’m tickled. Of all your self-destructive habits, this endeavour will at least be amusing for the rest of us, rather than actively worrying.”

Grantaire frowns.“Somehow I don’t find that reassuring.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t. I’m gonna enjoy this. I better go. Enjoy your lunch, idiot.”

“Enjoy double maths,” Grantaire shoots back.

“Oh, I will,” Eponine says gleefully, shouldering her bag.

Grantaire aims, fires, “Tell Marius I say hello.”

“Tell Enjolras welcome to the band,” Eponine returns, before stalking off. Leaving Grantaire with a cold half-eaten sub and the somewhat schadenfreudean support of his best friend, wondering if Enjolras will even turn up on Thursday.

 

\----------

 

Besides a solitary quip about singing with all the voices of the mountain, Enjolras gets through Wednesday without mention of Grantaire or his band. On Thursday, the day of his possible band practice, he is not so lucky.

Combeferre is gentle. 

“I know you’re not totally sold on it, but it could be fun,” he reminds Enjolras in the morning, as they collect what they need for the day from their neighbouring lockers. “You can’t know without giving it a chance.”

“I know,” Enjolras says. He was expecting this. Combeferre will try anything once. And where Courfeyrac will either follow with abandon, or at least shout “for science!” at the sidelines, Enjolras knows that he knows what he likes and likes what he knows.

Courfeyrac is thorough.

He gives Enjolras a whispered history of “the competition” during Chemistry. His monologue only actually covers two local bands he knows will definitely enter the battle of the bands, but Courfeyrac assures him they are the ones to beat. Enjolras misses most of what is said about fusion and fission, but he does learn Marius is apparently related to the frontman of the band Courfeyrac dubs “the favourites”.

Feuilly is direct.

“I don’t actually care if you go or not, that’s up to you,” he says when they meet in a corridor at the beginning of lunch. “But if you’re not gonna go, you should at least tell Grantaire.”

They part ways, Feuilly to the cafeteria and Enjolras to a school council meeting, and Enjolras wonders if Feuilly and Grantaire are not closer friends than he realised.

“Did you remember lunch?” Feuilly asks, as he leaves Enjolras outside the meeting room.

“Shit.” Enjolras did not. Feuilly just laughs.

Jehan is creative.

He slips quietly into the council meeting to deliver Enjolras provisions. “Thanks, Jehan,” Enjolras says gratefully, and then he is gone again.

Two cheese and tomato sandwiches are wrapped first in cling film, then in a sheet of paper that reads, “1. You like singing,” in Jehan’s flowing handwriting. Between the sandwiches, Enjolras finds a second smaller piece of paper: “2. Making new friends is good =] even in a weird networking way if that’s all you get out of it.” The bottle of water he’s been provided has had its own label covered by a new one that tells him “3. Feuilly says if his music is even a fraction as good as his art, then Grantaire’s band are probably pretty great.” Unbelievably, when Enjolras peels the banana Jehan has also included, a fourth piece of paper falls out. “I’m glad you ate the banana. You don’t eat enough fruit. Also 4. Can you imagine how easily the hot frontman of the winning band of a district wide battle of the bands would sweep class president? Okay maybe not easily, but it would be a hell of a starting position.”

The last note is stuck to the inside of the door. The other students only give it a passing glance, but Combeferre, who read each note after Enjolras throughout the meeting, is smiling at it when Enjolras reaches the door. “5. No one else will, so I’m telling you. Not suggesting. No “it’s your choice”. I’m telling you. Go.”

Marius is practically silent on the matter. But he turns out to have the most influence over Enjolras’ future musical endeavours.

 

By the end of the day, Enjolras is getting tired of the constant comments from his friends - even if he does still really want to know how Jehan got that note inside the banana.

Enjolras snaps at Courfeyrac’s long “Sooooo?” 

“I haven’t even seen Grantaire since his ridiculous request and he never told me where they actually practice,” he says, tugging his locker open with more force than necessary. “It was just a joke, I guess. He obviously doesn’t actually want me to show up, or he would have told me where.”

Enjolras closes his locker and ignores the muttering behind him, until Courfeyrac says, “Maybe by leaving a note in your locker?”

When Enjolras turns around, it’s Marius that’s holding up a small square of paper. “It fell out when you opened the door,” he explains. Enjolras tries to snatch it out of his hand, but Courfeyrac is faster. He darts behind Combeferre as he begins to read the note aloud.

""Sorry. I haven’t seen you around - so old-school locker note it is. We practise at Joly’s house, straight after school. I know you weren’t exactly teen?" No! Keen. God, his handwriting’s awful. “I know you weren’t exactly keen.” Aww, Enj, were you mean to him? “But I hope we’ll see you there. Just one practice, right? It can’t hurt.” Then it looks like he’s signed it R? But seriously, you should be thanking me for reading it, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, still weaving between their friends to keep himself from Enjolras’ reach. “And sparing you the effort of deciphering this.”

“There’s an address,” Courfeyrac finishes, passing the note to Jehan, so he doesn’t have to get too close to Enjolras.

Jehan returns the note to Enjolras. Grantaire’s handwriting is terrible, but he recognises the address as just a few streets over from their school. When Enjolras looks up, everyone is watching him. Only Feuilly tries to hide it, glancing down to read the note in Enjolras’ hand instead.

“I swear to God, the next one of you to say “sooo?” is getting this stuffed in their mouth,” Enjolras says, cheerfully.

“I will give you ten dollars,” Courfeyrac offers Marius. Marius silently shakes his head.

“Are we ready to go?” Jehan asks.

“Jehan said so!” Courfeyrac cries.

“Jehan said “go”.” Combeferre says, shaking his head.

Courfeyrac grins. “Worth a try.” He pokes Combeferre in the side, then slings an arm round Marius’ neck. “Let’s get out of here.”

Behind them, Feuilly tells Enjolras, “Joly’s is on my way home.”

Jehan is listening, but doesn’t comment. “Um, I’ll walk with you then, if you don’t mind.”

Jehan slips his arm through Enjolras and leans his head on his shoulder as they walk. “Proud of you.”

“You guys are making this into a much bigger deal than it is.”

“Maybe,” Jehan allows. “But our lives are devoid of drama. So you’ll just have to put up with it.”

“And this is a hundred times better than listening to Marius wax poetic about that girl,” Feuilly adds.

“What?”

“Oh, you missed it at lunch. Marius has fallen in love,” Jehan explains.

“With a girl he has never spoken to,” Feuilly says. “Yet he managed to spend a full hour talking about her.”

“I thought it was sweet.” Jehan lifts his head from Enjolras’ shoulder as they come to a halt at the end of the street, where Feuilly would usually part ways alone. “See you tomorrow,” Jehan says, giving Enjolras’ arm a little squeeze before he lets go.

Combeferre gives him a nod and a simple “Bye, guys.” Marius waves and Courfeyrac releases him to point two fingers at Enjolras. “I expect full details tomorrow.” Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Hey, if you’re gonna go make a bunch of new friends, we need to know what we’re up against.”

“I don’t know about a bunch,” Enjolras tells him. “I was just thinking of replacing one in particular.”

“Oh cruel, Enjolras. Don’t listen to him Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says, laughing. Combeferre smiles and begins to steer him away, Jehan and Marius following. Courfeyrac calls, “Haaave funnnnn,” as he is led off.

Feuilly and Enjolras set off again. Normally Enjolras walks at what his friends call a march, but today he falls into Feuilly’s sedate pace easily. It’s not a neighbourhood he knows very well. He looks around, but doesn’t take much in, as they pass one small house with neat garden after another.

“I’m kind of nervous,” he divulges to Feuilly.

Feuilly smiles. “I can absolutely guarantee you that Grantaire is definitely more so.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, his suggestion of you joining the band was off the cuff, right?” Enjolras nods. “”He didn’t discuss it with anyone, let alone the whole band. He’s invited you and I guess he’s kinda pinned his colours to the mast - your mast. If things don’t work out, it’s him that’s going to have to deal with the aftermath. You can just walk away.”

Enjolras considers this, and Feuilly quickly adds, “Not that I think it’s gonna go badly. I don’t. It’s just, Grantaire wouldn’t have asked you to do this if it wasn’t something he wanted. And it’s not like you jumped at the chance. He convinced you for a reason. I just think maybe he’s got more riding on this. So I don’t think you’ll be more nervous than he is.”

“For the record, he didn’t convince me. You guys did. But I see your point.” They pause and cross the street, startling a cat on the far side of the street. Enjolras watches it dart under a car. “You know him pretty well. Grantaire.”

Feuilly shrugs. “I guess.”

“Better than I realised.”

“We talk a lot in art. That’s it really. But he cares about the band, so he talks about it a fair bit.”

“Did he- Has he mentioned anything about today? I mean, me going to their practice?” Enjolras asks, not sure if he wants an answer. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing here though, how this came to be.

“Not really,” Feuilly says. But before Enjolras can ask what that means, he gestures at the street they’ve just reached. “Um, this is the street on the note. You okay if I just leave you here? I should really get home.”

“Yeah, of course,” Enjolras says, suddenly worried Feuilly exaggerated when he described Joly’s house as “on his way home”. He’s never been to Feuilly’s house, doesn’t know how far out of his way he has potentially dragged him. “Thanks for getting me here.”

“No problem, man. You gonna go in?” Feuilly asks, the same question Enjolras has been asking himself over and over during the walk.

“Probably,” Enjolras says, it’s the closest thing to an answer he’s able to give.

“Cool. Have fun.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, not sure if that’s possible given how awkward he already feels already, just standing in the street.

“See you tomorrow.” Feuilly crosses the street and continues on.

“See you,” Enjolras says, and turns to start looking for number 11.

He finds it easily enough. It’s one of the bigger houses on the street, but definitely a small family home compared to some of the houses in Enjolras’ neighbourhood. There’s a small silver car in the driveway, with a cancer research sticker in the rear window. Enjolras stands in front of the dark green door and texts Combeferre.

**I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.**

**Because like all human souls, you’re curious. It’s a feeling I’d encourage you to give into more often.** Combeferre replies.

Immediately after it his phone goes off again, this time with a text from Courfeyrac. **Relax. You’ll be fine. Also you’re funnier when you’re relaxed. Just try to have fun and I’m sure they’ll love you. But not more than we do. THEY WILL NEVER LOVE YOU MORE THAN WE DO. OKAY?**

Enjolras shakes his head and is about to tuck his phone back into his pocket when it beeps for a third time. **You should listen to Courfeyrac, because he is highly intelligent and also very dashing.**

Smiling, Enjolras sets his phone to silent, takes a deep breath and knocks on door in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait. Rotations are intense. Can't promise the next chapter will be any faster. But hopefully this tides you over. Next up, band practice. Finally.
> 
> Can you tell what my playlist was during writing this chapter? Haha.  
> Borrowed Disney lyrics very obviously belong to Disney.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez. Apologies for this incredibly slow update. Please accept this offering as token of my love and commitment to continuing this thing. I have written some way way in the future bits that I love so I am going to try really hard not to let this die. Thanks, as always, for reading.

Eponine, Joly and Bossuet don’t have a class first thing on a Thursday and Bahorel lives in richville so Grantaire trudges to school that morning alone. This does mean he gets to avoid a whole half hour of digs about Enjolras, but without Eponine and Joly to set an appropriate pace it stretches out into a forty-five minute walk with only his own mind for company. By the time he hits the small town centre surrounding their school, Grantaire needs a new pack of cigarettes. He gets two. It’s quickly becoming clear that today is gonna be the longest day of Grantaire’s life.

He misses homeroom entirely. Bahorel only rolls his eyes when Grantaire drops into the seat beside him after apologising to their English teacher for his tardiness. Grantaire has actually read the book they’re studying at the moment, but he finds it exceptionally difficult to concentrate on the discussion their teacher is trying to encourage. When she gives up and sets them a short essay question halfway through the class, Bahorel looks over at him and his notebook covered in unfinished doodles.

“I’m gonna assume you don’t want to talk about it,” Bahorel says. “But if I’m wrong and you do, well, Eponine’ll be in in like twenty minutes.”

“Thanks for the support, friend,” Grantaire deadpans.

Bahorel puts a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “If you were freaking out about the band, sure-”

“I’m not freaking out,” Grantaire mutters, but the hand feels reassuring all the same so he doesn’t shrug it off.

“- hit me up,” Bahorel continues. “Stuff with your mom, I’m here. Even school shit, though you should probably take that to Joly, let’s be real.” Grantaire nods here, because true. “But I’m not gonna talk about boys with you.”

“Oh my god.” Grantaire buries his face in his hands.

Bahorel pats Grantaire once on the shoulder before crossing his arms. “Especially not boys you should have gotten over years ago,” he adds.

Grantaire lifts his head to glare at him. “You are the worst.”

“Eponine is the worst,” Bahorel says, unfazed.

“Eponine _is_ the worst, but you are a close second.”

Bahorel shrugs. The initial smattering of conversation that always follows a class being left to their own devices has started to dwindle, so Bahorel is quieter when he says, “You can take this to literally anyone else, but if you want me to be able to look at this kid without laughing, then you better keep up the denial that’s worked well enough for us up until now.”

Grantaire ignores the ‘denial’ barb. “I don’t _want_ to talk to anyone about him.”

“Well that’s what I said from the beginning,” Bahroel says, looking at Grantaire like he’s an idiot. “Now, what the hell are we supposed to be writing about?”

Grantaire gets the answer to that from the girl behind him and he and Bahorel actually spend the rest of the class working. Thanks to the module on iconography they’re doing in religious studies at the moment, Grantaire continues this uncharacteristic studious streak through second period. His interest in religious art is the only reason he took the class, so it’s really just good fortune, but Joly would be pleased anyway.

Grantaire doesn’t get the chance to reassure his friend about his academic endeavours though, because the realisation that he’ll see Enjolras in math next period drives him behind the library, where he spends the break smoking. Eponine, just out of maths herself, doesn’t make an appearance. Probably trying to engage Marius in conversation. Grantaire is relieved.

When the bell goes at the end of the break, Grantaire can’t bring himself to go back inside. Not for maths. He’s spent the last twenty minutes imagining various scenarios of approaching Enjolras, reminding him about the invite to their practice, giving him Joly’s address. In them, Enjolras has been: angry, accusing Grantaire of “hounding him” whilst Feuilly looks embarrassed beside him; excited, talking eagerly about wanting to hear them play, and Grantaire doesn’t even bother imagining Feuilly’s reaction to this, it’s far too unlikely; openly mocking, hinting at the way Grantaire looks at him but whereas Feuilly looks away Bahorel looks up and when Enjolras calls Grantaire “desperate for his attention” Bahorel’s fist flies; confused, asks who Grantaire is like their previous conversation didn’t even qualify as worth remembering, as if Grantaire isn’t worth remembering. Grantaire can’t decide which possible reaction is worst. He lights another cigarette. Bahorel will cover for him, maybe.

It starts raining. Grantaire huddles closer to the shed behind him and hopes the dark clouds overhead are not an omen. As he watches fat drops of water bounce off the ground, Grantaire tells himself that if he wants Enjolras to come to practice - and he does - then he has to tell him where it is. Their best shot of winning this contest is with someone with a voice like Enjolras’ centre stage. That’s all. He can survive the ribbing from his friends, though he hopes it’ll settle down eventually. This isn’t about Enjolras. it’s about the band, the music, and maybe a tiny bit about grinding Theo’s face into the dirt by winning. And for that, Grantaire should be able to step up and talk to Enjolras. He did it just fine earlier in the week, mostly fine. He survived. Jesus. Maybe Eponine was right. This might be his worst idea yet.

The wind picks up and the meagre shelter afforded by the overhang of the shed roof is gone. Grantaire drops his cigarette end in a puddle, turns up his collar and darts back into the main building. He jogs up the stairwell, drips along the length of an empty corridor, and ducks into his thankfully abandoned art classroom.

He’s got at least half an hour before any of his classmates start turning up, but Mr Cook could appear at any moment, so Grantaire grabs the key that hangs from a nail just inside the materials cupboard and lets himself into the kiln room. He leaves the light off but flips the switch for the extractor fan. The kiln hasn’t been on today, but the small room is still slightly warmer than the classroom beyond it and windowless. It’s dark and comfortable, and it’s Grantaire’s favourite place in this whole godforsaken building. He pushes himself up onto the workbench and lets his head fall back against the wall. Eyes closed, he digs his cigarette pack out his pocket and lights up. Maybe he should just stay here all day. Fuck classes, fuck practice, fuck Enjolras. _God._ He inhales way to fast and coughs up a storm just at the phrase, never mind the thought. _New topic, right now._

Grantaire wonders idly if Bahorel will know not to mention his skipping maths in front of Joly at lunch, or if Grantaire will have to beat him there to run damage control. Grantaire opens his eyes and watches the tip of his cigarette hover in the air, the only source of light in the dark of the room. Joly worries too much, but it’s kinda nice sometimes, knowing someone gives a shit. Other times it’s just another source of guilt. 

Feeling along the bench around him, Grantaire finds a small clay dish for a temporary ashtray. Not five minutes later, he hears footsteps and only has time to shove himself back onto the floor before the door swings open and Mr Cook turns on the light.

 _Shit, shit, shit._ Mr Cook is the only teacher that likes Grantaire even a little, and he’s a really good art teacher and Grantaire actually really likes him too and he has totally fucked this up. He gives his best sheepish apologetic half-smile as Mr Cook looks from the cigarette dangling from his fingertips to his face.

The teacher’s gaze continues to travel upwards and he stares at a point on the wall over Grantaire’s head as he says, “Huh. Someone must have left the fan on. It does smell a little funny in here. I guess I’ll give it _ten minutes_ before I turn it off.”

He turns on his heel, flicks the light off and closes the door behind him, plunging Grantaire back into darkness. Grantaire stubs out his cigarette immediately. In a rare stroke of genius, Grantaire empties his cigarette packet into the inside pocket of his jacket and stuffs the empty box back into his jeans. He thinks about it a beat longer and decides that’s too obvious. He fishes out a cigarette and replaces it in the carton. Much more believable. Shouldering his backpack, Grantaire wonders if he’s supposed to leave, or wait here for Mr Cook coming back. Surely he’s gonna want to like give him a lecture at least. Any other teacher and Grantaire has no doubt that he would already have at least a week’s detention (probably two) and likely a call to his mom in his future. 

When Mr Cook returns it’s with a seldom used stern expression.

He presses a hand against his temple and asks, “Alright, where are you supposed to be just now?”

“Maths,” Grantaire admits.

“Hm. And who’s your teacher?”

“Mr Johnson.”

“And where does he think you are right now?”

“Um. I don’t know.” It’s possible Bahorel will have lied for him, told their maths teacher Grantaire took unwell over break, but Grantaire isn’t about to land anyone else in trouble here.

“But probably not in my kiln room.”

“No, probably not,” Grantaire agrees.

Mr Cook looks at him expectantly and Grantaire knows he’s waiting for him to explain what he’s doing in said room, but Grantaire doesn’t want to lie to him, but also doesn’t rightly know the truth himself. It’s more than “hiding from a boy,” although even if it wasn’t, never in a million years would Grantaire opt for that.

“Grantaire,” Mr Cook says gently, his stern expression slipping. “This isn’t like you.” Grantaire congratulates himself for not laughing at this assertion. Grantaire works hard in art; Mr Cook has no reason to assume that isn’t the case across the board. “I know you guys have guidance counsellors for stuff like this, but if you don’t want to go to them and you need someone to talk to, you know where my door is,” he offers, awkwardly. “And my keys, apparently,” he adds, frowning.

“That’s um, that’s kind of you, Mr Cook, but I’m fine, really, I am. I just... got myself worked up over break and I couldn’t face maths in the headspace I was in, and then it started raining so I came in here so I could keep sm-” Mr Cook shakes his head, “-uh, warm. And dry,” Grantaire explains, aiming for honest but vague.

If this makes the situation any clearer for Mr Cook, it doesn’t show on his face. “Right.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire adds, probably a little late.

“I’m not going to send you back to maths,” Mr Cook says like he’s just decided. “The disruption you’d cause the rest of the class isn’t worth the what?” He looks at his watch. “Ten minutes of maths education you’d get. You can stay here and clean the clay tools. God knows the freshman never bloody bother.”

Grantaire nods, but slowly. He’s grateful, but he doesn’t want to look eager. Mr Cook is obviously aiming for punishment here.

“And you’ll need to hand over the rest of the packet. I _should_ report it. Not even just on school property, but actually in the building. What were you thinking?” Mr Cook shakes his head. “Cough ‘em up.”

Grantaire congratulates himself a second time as he drops the near empty cigarette carton into Mr Cook’s outstretched hand. “Right, go clean something. And don’t misuse the kiln room again. Or any of the art department.”

 

Feuilly raises an eyebrow at Grantaire when he slides into his seat beside him, as their double period of art actually starts.

“You weren’t in maths.”

“Astute observation,” Grantaire says, as Mr Cook takes the register.

“And I’m guessing you didn’t actually have a family emergency.”

 _Family emergency? Really?_ “Bahorel is losing his touch,” Grantaire comments.

Feuilly says nothing. He’s a good guy. He’ll always listen to Grantaire complain about crap, but he never pushes. Though, Grantaire supposes, if he was gonna have to sit and listen to someone talk about how hot his friend is he probably wouldn’t push for it either. Oh wait, that’s basically the whole founding of their friendship. Though to be fair to Feuilly, he has never called Eponine hot. He called her pretty once, but mostly he quietly compliments her brain and admires how ferociously competent she is, which yeah. Feuilly is a good guy.

“I didn’t make it to maths because I was having a crisis of faith,” Grantaire half-explains.

“Doesn’t that usually require you to have faith in the first place?”

“Hey, I have faith in stuff. Or at least I did.”

“Before your crisis.”

“Yeah.”

“Faith in what?”

“I don’t know. My ability to make mostly self-preserving decisions?”

“And that faith has been shaken by?” Feuilly asks, like there are any bad habits left for Grantaire to pick up, like he could possibly be referring to something other than Enjolras. Grantaire covers his face with his hands.

“I might have asked Enjolras to join my band,” Grantaire mutters through his fingers.

“I might have heard about that,” Feuilly says. Grantaire drops his hands.

It is ridiculous to be surprised that Enjolras told his friends, of course Enjolras told his friends. Being asked to join a band by a weird kid you barely know is definitely the kind of haha-guess-what-happened-to-me-during-lunch-today shit you tell your friends. But that means he talked to his friends about Grantaire. And, oh god, possibly the circumstances in which Grantaire asked him.

Grantaire clears his throat and wipes his hands on his trousers. He can feel the back of his neck heating up. He looks past Feuilly, instead of at him as he forces nonchalance. “Uh, did he- What did he-” The girl on the other side of Feuilly smiles at him when he accidentally catches her eye. Her gaze drops back to her work but Grantaire stops speaking abruptly.

“Actually, uh. Come with me a second,” Grantaire says.

“Where exactly?” Feuilly asks, even as he stands and follows Grantaire to the front of the room.

“Um, Mr Cook,” Grantaire gets their teacher’s attention.

“Yes?”

“Y’know what you were saying earlier about how if I needed someone to talk to... Well, that was like really kind, sir, and um, I think I do, and I was wondering if Feuilly and I could maybe use the kiln room for a few minutes, um, so that I could do that.”

Mr Cook surveys the two boys for a long moment. Grantaire doesn’t know if troubled-but-grateful is an expression in his repertoire, but that’s what he aims for. 

“Feuilly, I’m going to ask you a question, and there is not a right or a wrong answer and you won’t get into trouble regardless of your answer,” Mr Cook says seriously.

“Um, okay.”

“Do you smoke?”

“No, sir,” Feuilly answers, looking surprised.

“Good, good. Maybe you can try and instill some of that sense into your friend here,” Mr Cook gestures to Grantaire. “I want to see some progress on your mood boards by the end of the first hour, guys. So don’t take advantage here,” their teacher warns, as he reluctantly hands over the key to the kiln room.

“What was that about?” Feuilly asks after he closes the door behind them.

“He, uh, caught me smoking in here last period.”

“Jesus, Grantaire. You’re an idiot.”

“I know, I know. I’m an idiot, you’re a liar,” Grantaire says, gesturing to himself and Feuilly in turn.

“What?” 

Grantaire puts his hand on his heart and an innocent expression of his face. “No, sir,” he mimics. “Like hell you don’t smoke. You’ve bummed cigarettes off me.”

“Hey, he didn’t ask me if I’ve _ever_ smoked,” Feuilly says. “I have on occasion been ice-skating, but if someone asked me “Do you ice skate?” I wouldn’t say yes. I’ve smoked a few cigarettes, but that’s not what he meant. Especially not if you were his point of reference.”

“Hm.” Grantaire pushes himself up onto the workbench and Feuilly settles crosslegged on the floor.

Grantaire pulls his knees up and crosses his arms over them as Feuilly asks, “So you need someone to talk to? Or you needed to take me into a cupboard to ask “Did Enjolras say anything about me?” like a fourteen year old girl.”

Grantaire drops his head on his arms and mutters, “This isn’t a cupboard, but basically.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t quite hear that,” Feuilly says. Grantaire takes it back; Feuilly’s a jerk.

Grantaire peeps over his knees and says, “Boys are allowed to care if someone talks about them.” He pauses. “ _Did_ Enjolras say anything about me?”

Feuilly shrugs. “Not really. The majority of the conversation revolved around mocking the idea of Enjolras as a rockstar.”

“He’d look so good on a stage,” Grantaire says, mournfully.

“That was the general consensus, yeah,” Feuilly agrees.

“What was his consensus?” Grantaire asks.

“You can’t have a consensus of one.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean. What did he say?”

“All he asked was who else was in your band?”

“Oh.” Grantaire doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or not. It’s almost definitely a good thing that Enjolras didn’t tell all of his friends about their awkward changing room encounter. “I guess it’s good he was interested enough to ask,” Grantaire says slowly.

“But?” Feuilly anticipates.

“I don’t know, man. I’m starting to think it’d just be easier if he didn’t come.”

“Sure,” Feuilly agrees. “But only if you’re being kinda selfish.”

“What?” Grantaire is pretty sure that inviting Enjolras to join the band was the selfish part of this whole scenario.

“Well, I mean, why did you ask him to join the band in the first place?”

“Um, I heard him singing... in the locker room,” Grantaire admits.

“Right.” Feuilly skims past the admission so easily that Grantaire realises he was counting positives that didn’t exist; Enjolras definitely told them. “Because he’s a good singer. That’s why you asked him to join your band. To aid your chances in the battle of the bands.”

“Yeah.” Feuilly smiles. Grantaire is still sure he’s missing something.

“Grantaire, your Enjolras thing isn’t new.” Feuilly always calls it that, and Grantaire appreciates it. “Thing” is his word of choice. He hasn’t found another word he doesn’t hate. “If it was about that, this would have happened, well, a while ago. This is about the band.”

Grantaire thinks about it. As ever, Feuilly has a point. “Yeah,” Grantaire agrees. “It is.”

“Exactly. So if Enjolras comes, maybe you’re improving your line-up for the contest. And if not, no loss. You’re in the exact same place you were last week.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, coming around. It’s nothing he hasn’t tried to tell himself already, but it helps to hear someone else saying it. It’s for the band; for Gav, for Bahorel, for Eponine. It’s worth the potential embarrassment.

Grantaire leans back against the wall, already feeling a little more relaxed. Feuilly pushes himself up against the wall to standing, sensing their conversation is nearing its end. Grantaire drops his legs and leans forward, palms on his knees. “Tell me honestly. You think he’ll come?”

“Enjolras can be kinda contrary when he wants to be, so it’s hard to say, but for what it’s worth, yeah, I think he will.”

Grantaire lets Feuilly off the hook after that. They return to their desks and Feuilly works on his “mood board” whilst Grantaire carefully composes a note to drop off in Enjolras’ locker before he leaves for the day. Grantaire has an early finish, so he doesn’t have to do it at lunch and risk bumping into Enjolras.

 

Double art, seventh period off, band practice after school - Thursdays are Grantaire’s favourite weekday, and today could end up being one to remember. But whether unforgettably good or memorably terrible is still up in the air. After spending all day considering the myriad of ways things could go wrong, by the time he and Bahorel are setting up in Joly’s basement Grantaire is almost back to hoping Enjolras doesn’t show up.

Bahorel spends the wait for the rest of their friends to show up doing maths homework - which Grantaire should ask for, but will instead ask to copy. Grantaire spends the wait pacing.

“Look, I can’t do anything about Eponine, but all I’m saying is it would be really great if you could not be an asshole, if he comes. That would really help me out,” Grantaire says, then completes another length of the basement.

Bahorel lifts up one hand. “I promise to not actively be an asshole to the object of your infatuation, if he comes. Scout’s honour.”

“You were never a scout,” Grantaire mutters, but he still feels a tiny amount of relief. Maybe everything will be fine.

“We’re heeere, glitches!” Eponine’s voice carries down the stairs. Then again, maybe not.

“Is he here?” Grantaire hears Bossuet ask.

“How would I know?” Joly’s voice is muffled. Grantaire can picture him unwinding his long scarf.

Eponine appears on the stairs. “No Helen of Troy?” she asks, leaning on the bannister.

“Not yet,” Bahorel says.

“I really hope this is you guys getting it out of your system,” Grantaire says, as Eponine throws herself onto the sofa.

“Aw, are you worried we’re going to embarrass you in front of Goldilocks?”

“Nah, he’s worried you’re gonna go all Mama Bear on Goldilocks,” Bahorel says.

Grantaire considers more pacing, but sits down on the floor instead as Bossuet urges Eponine to scoot up.

“Nah, I’m reserving judgement,” Eponine says, and it’s more than Grantaire thought he could hope for to be honest.

Joly squeezes onto the couch next to Bossuet and remarks, “It actually kinda works, as a metaphor. Enjolras is coming into our home, trying to find a good fit.”

Grantaire sighs and lies back on the floor. He feels like he has lost all control of this day, but really that happened at about 8:45 this morning.

“As long as he doesn’t try out the fit of Bahorel’s beanbag, I’m sure everything will be fine,” Bossuet says, laughing when Bahorel looks up darkly.

“I don’t think Enjolras is the beanbag type,” Eponine says

“What happened to reserving judgement?” Grantaire asks, propping himself up on his elbows.

Eponine pushes herself up onto the arm of the sofa where she has room to shuck off her sweater, and smiles down at Grantaire. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll hold some back. There’ll be more judgement to come.” 

Bossuet doesn’t bother moving into the freed up sofa space. He huffs a laugh into Joly’s shoulder as Grantaire flops back to the floor with a muttered, “Great.”

They must have left an amp on after setting up, because one starts to chatter. “Phone,” Bahorel announces and a moment later Grantaire’s vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out to a text from Feuilly.

**I got him to the door. The rest is up to him. Good luck.**

_Oh god._ The panic doesn’t have time to set in before there’s a knocking from upstairs.

“I got it!” Grantaire spits out immediately and throws himself to his feet. _HE CAME HE CAME HE CAME. OH GOD, HE CAME._

“This I gotta see,” Eponine says, following him to the stairs.

“Ooh, me too.” Bossuet falls in behind her.

“I’m gonna just get everyone drinks, yeah?” Joly says, keeping up. “Lemonade for everyone?”

Bahorel rolls his eyes for no one to see and doesn’t move from his beanbag.

 

\----------

 

It’s a very short wait before Joly’s front door is pulled open and Grantaire, breathing quickly, greets him with a grin.

“Hey,” he says. “You came.”

“I did,” Enjolras agrees.

Grantaire stares at him for a long moment before he realises and steps to the side to let Enjolras by. Beyond him a willowy girl with long dark hair watches with a smirk. Eponine, Enjolras remembers. 

“Hi,” Enjolras greets her. Behind him, Grantaire closes the front door. Enjolras’ phone goes off in his pocket. He ignores it and smiles tentatively at Eponine.

She nods. “Hey.”

“Enjolras, this is Eponine,” Grantaire introduces. “And Joly and Bossuet.” He points to the two boys watching from the doorway of what turns out to be the kitchen. Grantaire pauses to allow them all to exchange hellos, but hovers like he is expecting a fight to break out at any moment. “And Bahorel is downstairs, which is this way.”

As he follows Grantaire down a flight of stairs to the basement, Enjolras receives at least two more texts, possibly three. He doesn’t want to be rude, but he can’t join in on the conversation that Joly brings back from the kitchen along with a tray of glasses since he has no idea what’s it about, so after exchanging a “Hey” for an upward head tilt from Bahorel, Enjolras quickly checks his phone.

Feuilly: **He did it. This is not a drill. I repeat this is not a drill. Enjolras is in the house.**

Jehan: **:)**

Courfeyrac: **GO GET ‘EM TIGER.**

Feuilly: **Um, yeah. Sorry. Forgot to untick you.**

Enjolras makes a face and suddenly realises the room has gotten very quiet. He looks up to find Grantaire standing beside him. The others are watching but look away quickly, resuming conversation. He stuffs his phone back in his pocket, but Grantaire apologises before Enjolras can.

“Sorry. God, it’s such an old argument, I should have realised you wouldn’t care. Um, how was your day?”

“No, I’m sorry. I- Yeah, it was fine,” Enjolras says, choosing not to touch on his friends’ group effort to get him here this afternoon. “Yours?”

Grantaire gives half a laugh and says, “Same old, same old.”

Someone snorts behind Grantaire. He whirls around and says, “Shouldn’t we be getting ready?”

There’s a tiny amount of grumbling, but Eponine springs up from the couch to fiddle with a shiny black bass guitar and Bahorel slouches over to turn on an amp.

“Any comments, questions, concerns?” Grantaire asks, taking a step away from Enjolras and placing himself halfway between Eponine and Bahorel.

“Actually, I had an idea for the name of the band, for the battle,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire looks confused as he says, “We already have a name.”

“It’s Neon Glove,” Eponine, says coolly. Enjolras gets the feeling she already dislikes him. He ploughs on regardless.

“Yeah, but technically you’ll be a different band for this battle of the bands thing. The posters at school say it’s on June 5th so I thought the band could be called Jean Maximilien Lamarque. He was a French member of parliament whose death was a catalyst for the June Rebellions in Paris in 1832, which kicked off following his funeral procession on _June 5th_.”

No one says anything. Enjolras isn’t stupid, he knows it’s a little out there, but it’s kind of clever and he likes it. He didn’t expect it the idea to be this poorly received. Everyone, with the exception of Bahorel who is crouched over a guitar case, is looking at him, but still no one speaks. Maybe he’s coming across as trying too hard. This is probably what Courfeyrac was talking about when he told him to relax. 

Eventually Eponine breaks the silence.

“Who names a band after some unknown historical figure?” she scoffs.

Bahorel looks up. “Franz Ferdinand.”

Enjolras is surprised. “There’s a band called Franz Ferdinand?” he asks at the same time as Grantaire says, “Franz Ferdinand was a person?”

“Wasn’t he an archduke or something?” Joly asks.

“Point to Joly,” Bahorel nods. “Archduke of Austria. I did a history report on him. Or well, his death.”

“Mr Nolan’s Consequences assignment?” Enjolras guesses.

“Yeah, man,” Bahorel says. Enjolras searches his face for surprise. He can’t tell if Bahorel knows they’re in the same history class or not.

“I did mine on Lamarque.” Bahorel nods and Enjolras wonders if this means he’s won one person over regarding the band name. “I found the June Rebellions really interesting and since the contest falls on the date it does, I thought calling the band after him would be a cool tip of the hat.”

“You’re not even in the band,” Eponine says, amused, though something in her tone suggests that she won’t stay that way if Enjolras pushes this.

Enjolras knows he should back off, that he’s supposed to be relaxed and making friends, but he can’t help it, he bristles at the comment. He didn’t ask to be in this or any band, Grantaire asked him. He doesn’t really care about any of this. It was just a suggestion and he was only trying to help. That’s what he should say, but instead he says, “And I’m not going to be in a band called Neon Glove, however temporarily,” like he’s making his final offer.

“You get that no one will know any of that, or get it from the name,” Grantaire says, breaking into his and Eponine’s staring match.

“Theo will,” Enjolras says shortly.

“What?” Grantaire looks at him curiously. Behind him, Eponine’s eyes are narrowed but she’s listening.

“That’s who you want to beat, right? The National Guard? Courfeyrac tells me they’re kind of incredible.” Grantaire nods, and Enjolras continues. “Theo, their frontman, is super into his French heritage and how his aristocratic ancestors stepped all over the lower classes, I guess,” Enjolras says, the ‘what a douche’ implied. “ His family still have an old uniform from around the time of the 1832 riots following Lamarque’s death, and it’s like his most prized possession. The band name’s deliberately vague so they can cash in on people’s “fuck yeah patriotism” regardless of origin, but you can be sure he’ll definitely get the reference, even if no one else does.”

“How do you know?” Grantaire asks.

“He’s Marius’ cousin.”

“Who’s Marius?” Bahorel asks.

Grantaire snorts. “How the hell do you not know who Marius is? I feel like I’ve known him my whole fucking life, despite never having met him.”

Enjolras frowns in confusion, and watches Eponine’s hard edges disappear. She flushes a little and punches Grantaire in the arm. “Shut up,” she hisses and Grantaire laughs, even as he rubs his arm.

“Still waiting,” Bahorel intones, like this is not a state it is advisable to keep him in for long.

“He’s the new kid. Just started this year. Lives with his aunt, but his grandfather paid his school fees, so he was at Private School, ‘til they had some massive blowout argument and his grandfather refused to keep paying, so his aunt enrolled him here. He likes it better here, anyway, though,” one of the boys on the sofa rhymes off.

Not Joly, Joly is the smaller one. Joly he kind of knows, or knows of; he’s in a bunch of Combeferre’s classes. The boy who apparently knows Marius better than Enjolras does has close cropped hair and an easygoing grin and Enjolras has forgotten his name.

“How do you know all that?” Bahorel asks.

“Because I’ve spoken to him,” Not-Joly says, like it should be obvious. “He’s in like all of my classes. You’ve honestly not spotted him?” Bahorel shrugs and the other boy tries to describe Marius. “Average height, dark hair, uh,” he prods Joly in the side, requesting help.

“Aah,” Joly squeaks, then attempts to turn it into a thoughtful sound. “Umm. No glasses. His hair kind of goes like this,” Joly makes a strange gesture over his own head.

Enjolras feels like he should assist, being that he brought Marius up, but as he listens to the two boys on the couch try to sum up his friend’s face, he realises he can’t actually think of anything to add.

“Sounds weird,” Bahorel says, and Grantaire beams inexplicably.

“Actually, he’s kind of attractive,” Joly says and his couch companion looks at him in surprise. So does Enjolras, but he quickly composes himself.

“Really?” the boy - Bossuet! Enjolras suddenly remembers - Bossuet prods Joly again, more gently this time.

“I mean, a little on the pretty side, for me, personally, but yeah, I’d say so.”

“Nothing wrong with a pretty guy, eh Ep?” Grantaire asks and Enjolras watches to see if this will earn him another punch.

It’s a short wait. Eponine quickly responds with words rather than fists. “Not at all. Some of us like our boys as pretty as girls. Right, R?”

Enjolras remembers the note still in his pocket. That Grantaire goes by R - which, now he thinks about it, is kind of clever - is confirmed as he turns fully towards Eponine at this. They appear to continue conversing silently.

“I was gonna say that he has kind of a weird nose,” Bossuet continues, ignoring them until Eponine splutters behind Grantaire. At that he, along with everyone else, looks at her. She meets no one’s gaze, turning instead to fiddle with her amp.

“I think Eponine disagrees,” Grantaire says for her, grinning. 

“I think you tread dangerously,” Eponine mutters, and Bahorel murmurs in agreement.

Grantaire is an easy grin as he shoulders a red electric guitar and crows, “You’ve got nothing on me.”

“Nothing?” Eponine echoes. “Oh, so En-” Grantaire is spinning towards her, coiling his lead around his feet, when the rest of Eponine’s words are drowned in a cacophony of at least two cymbals and a bass drum, Enjolras guesstimates.

“Sorry,” a tiny blonde kid who has just materialised from nowhere says, looking anything but. “My hands slipped.”

“Has he been here the whole time?” Enjolras asks the room, while Eponine glares daggers at the drummer and Grantaire disentangles himself.

Bahorel huffs a small laugh and retunes his D-string.

“Enjolras, Gavroche. Gavroche, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, as he checks his own tuning. “We good to start?”

“I’m kinda hungry,” the kid, Gavroche, says hopefully.

“You’re always hungry,” Eponine retorts.

“Not that I’m rushing you or anything, you all know you’re welcome to stay here, but I’ve got a shift later and if Eponine wants a lift home, we’re going to need to leave in like a half hour. If not earlier.”

“And Eponine wants a lift home,” Eponine adds, as Enjolras wonders where Joly works.

“Guess we should fucking play something then,” Bahorel grins. 

“Whatever Works?” Grantaire says and everyone nods.

Enjolras is still standing in the middle of the room. Everyone else has a spot and he wonders if he should be trying to find his own or joining Joly and Bossuet on the sofa to just listen. Grantaire sidles up to him with an apologetic smile.

“So I know you’re probably gonna think I’m a disorganised mess,” Grantaire says and ignores Eponine’s “he is”.”But I don’t have like lyrics or anything for you. Not today anyway. It’s not that I thought you weren’t going to- It’s like how it never rains if you have an umbrella, y’know. But also, yeah, I kind of am a disorganised mess.”

Grantaire smiles, like it’s a secret, and Enjolras realises that though it might not be the reason for Grantaire’s lack of preparation, he really didn’t think Enjolras was going to come. Enjolras is suddenly glad he did. It’s not exactly been the time of his life so far, but after his conversation with Grantaire earlier in the week he can at least enjoy having proved the other boy wrong by showing up.

“Um, should I- where should I stand?” Enjolras asks him quietly.

“Oh, uh. Wherever you like.” Grantaire shrugs. “Just do-”

“-whatever works?” Enjolras suggests, and Grantaire’s laugh is surprised. Enjolras smiles, pleased.

“Exactly,” Grantaire grins back. “Um, it’s got a pretty standard structure, so you’ll pick up the bridge and chorus easily. So you can join in when you feel you can. I mean, if you want.”

Grantaire’s hiding it well but Enjolras can tell he’s nervous, so he swallows his “I gather that’s why I’m here” and just nods instead.

After Grantaire gives him a nod, the child on drums counts them in.

Enjolras’ first thought is that they’re _loud_. But it works. By the end of the first verse, Enjolras is nodding along. He can feel the music as much as hear it, especially the deep thrum of Eponine’s bass. And they’re good. It’s not the kind of music Enjolras would normally listen to, unless Courfeyrac is playing the role of passenger seat DJ, but he can at least recognise that. The song is fast-paced and upbeat, which contrasts with the lyrics Enjolras can catch, which seem almost pleading. The tune is catchy and Grantaire is right about it being easy to pick up.

Enjolras only joins in on the last chorus, but when he does Grantaire beams at him and proceeds to lead them into repeating it. He cuts off before the last line and thankfully Enjolras manages to carry it himself. He hears Grantaire ask, “Again?” over them, but doesn’t realise what’s going on until Eponine shouts, “Fine. From the top, assholes.”

Grantaire launches back into the first verse and Enjolras grins. He watches Grantaire’s fingers fly up and down the neck of his guitar ‘til he comes in on the chorus again. Grantaire crowds up against Eponine and sings the chorus to her, earnestly promising to be whatever she’ll let him be to her, until she laughs and shoves him away. Enjolras doesn’t really know Grantaire, but he’s certain this is the most vibrant he’s ever seen him. When Grantaire tries the same routine on Bahorel during the next chorus, Bahorel rolls his eyes and lets Grantaire dance around him. Enjolras doesn’t get a turn of a begging Grantaire, but the wide grin Grantaire shoots him everytime he joins in make him feel like part of the group in a way he never expected to.

When the last chord fades out, Grantaire looks at him, expectant and nervous. Enjolras looks around the band. “Grantaire was right, you guys are good,” he says. Running a hand through his curls, he admits, “That was pretty fun.”

He looks back at Grantaire in time to share his smile.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pro-tip: don't attempt a chaptered fic during your last year of vet school. I'm terribly sorry for the long break. If you're back, thanks for sticking with this.
> 
> bold looks terrible with ao3's font of choice. it's too much for my use. will try and change it later. apologies.

This is not a complete disaster, in fact it’s not even a partial disaster. Eponine hasn’t succeeded in embarrassing him, which means she isn’t really trying. Joly and Bossuet have been their usual friendly welcoming selves. Bahorel has been, well, Bahorel mostly. And Gavroche was never really a worry in the first place.

The point is Enjolras is here and is only getting increasingly more difficult to look at because he keeps smiling at Grantaire. Okay, so the jury’s still out on whether this was a good idea, but a disaster it definitely is not. Grantaire could kiss someone.

Specifically the someone right now shaping his perfect pink lips around words from Grantaire’s own head. Grantaire tears his eyes away and the next time around sings the chorus almost desperately to Eponine, so he can’t look at Enjolras. Bahorel gets a turn too, but despite the distraction, every time Grantaire dares a glance at Enjolras he can’t help but smile. Grantaire would never had said that he felt there was something missing when the band played together, but at the same time Enjolras being here feels right.

Soon, too soon, their second playthrough is done, and what if it doesn’t feel like that to Enjolras. Grantaire is still as he waits for blond to pass down his judgement.

“Grantaire was right, you guys are good,” he says first, and they are. That, Grantaire knew already. Grantaire waits and Enjolras adds, “That was pretty fun.”

 _One practice. You come, you hate it, fine. You can’t know ‘til you try._ Grantaire wishes he could play it cool, give an easy smirk, a snappy “told you so”, but the brilliant and devastatingly beautiful boy he likes is glad he’s here, with Grantaire, singing his songs; he can’t do a thing to stop the truly embarrassing earnest smile taking over his face. Eponine is going to have a field day.

Grantaire beams at Enjolras and Enjolras smiles back like a normal human with a competent handle on their emotions.

“Yeah,” Grantaire agrees in a voice that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. He clears his throat but is saved from having to say anything else by Eponine asserting, “We are.”

“Remains to be seen if he was right about you,” she continues. “But you’re not a bad singer.”

“In Eponinean, that actually means a very good singer,” Bossuet translates, kindly.

“Eponinean?” Joly questions. “Eponese, surely.”

“Eponish?” Bossuet tries out, with a wide grin.

“‘Fluent in Grumpy’ is what Azelma calls it,” Gavroche pitches in.

“You, shut up,” Eponine tells him.

“A traditional greeting in Grumpy, if I’m not mistaken,” Joly punctuates with a giggle.

Bringing them back to the point, Bossuet says, “She’s right, albeit understating it,” and Joly nods.

“That sounded great.” Joly meets Grantaire’s eye, but seeks out Enjolras’ to add, “You have a lovely voice.” Enjolras opens his mouth to respond but Joly continues over him, hurriedly, “Not that you don’t, R. I just meant that-”

A rumbling laugh from Bahorel drowns out Joly’s worried explanation. “I don’t think you need to convince R of the merit of Enjolras’ addition to the band.” More than one snigger follows his words.

“Quite,” Joly says.

“Maybe we should play something else,” Grantaire says, desperately.

“Reno is pretty simple,” Bahorel says.

“Hey, harsh,” Grantaire protests.

“I meant lyrically, dumbass, since you didn’t write anything out.”

“Right, yeah. Okay.” Grantaire turns around and flicks his guitar pick at Gav’s head to make sure he has his attention. He catches it, the agile little shit, and fires it back. Grantaire dodges and says, “I Once Got Shot In Reno.”

“Yeah, I was listening,” Gavroche huffs.

“You got- oh, that’s the next song,” Enjolras says as he retrieves the plectrum from the floor.

Grantaire is already halfway to digging another out of his pocket, but he stops and holds his hand out instead. Enjolras drops it into his hand and Grantaire is not at all disappointed that their fingers don’t touch. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Enjolras smiles and Grantaire is saved from spending the rest of his life just watching that by Eponine asking what chord they start on. It’s an old one and it has been a while since they’ve played it, so it’s plausible Eponine does actually want to double check how Reno starts, but it’s also possible she is rescuing Grantaire from making a fool of himself. She can play at being mean all she wants, Grantaire knows she loves him really.

“Uh, C7,” Grantaire says, and gives Gav the nod.

Reno is as much a story as a song, but there’s still chorus for Enjolras to join in on. He sings beautifully, though sounds a little too polished to fit the song’s obvious country influence. Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ eyes on him during the verses, watching him croon a tall tale. He lets his glance dart Enjolras’ way during the final verse, sings a little stronger for the half-smile there.

“That was pretty different from the last one,” Enjolras says after the last chord fades.

“Yeah, I guess,” Grantaire says.

“Neon Glove defy genre,” Bossuet chimes from the sofa. Grantaire winces, remembering the argument their practice started with and hoping Eponine doesn’t.

Enjolras nods and lifts a lemonade from the tray of glasses.

“I like the one’s that tell a story,” Joly says, as he watches Gavroche gesture at Enjolras ‘til he gives up his drink, passing it over to the younger boy. “Next time tell him to get it himself,” Joly says, lifting another glass to offer to Enjolras. “He’s taking advantage because you’re new and don’t know that beneath that rosy-cheeked exterior is a grade A nuisance.”

Gavroche expertly composes an angelic “who me?” expression before draining the glass in one.

“Speaking of Thenardiers taking advantage of the generosity of others,” Bossuet says, “We need to go if you’re taking them home before your shift.”

“Sorry, what was that Bossuet? Did you say “graciously accepting the invitation of others”?” Eponine unplugs her bass with a loud buzz. She packs it away and turns to Grantaire. "Sorry for cutting practice short. But you and Enjolras can hang out and go through more of our repertoire.”

“Wait, what?” Grantaire says, as Bahorel also shucks off his guitar and slides it into a case.

“You don’t really need us all for this anyway,” Eponine says, as she grabs her sweater from the back of the couch. “We can leave Enjolras in your capable hands, right, R?”

Grantaire makes sure his back is to Enjolras when he gives her a warning look. It has no effect, which he knows is his punishment for teasing her about Marius earlier. She continues unheeding, talking to Enjolras this time. “The melodies and lyrics almost exclusively come from his pretty little head, anyway. I’m sure he’ll get you up to speed.” Eponine grins at Enjolras and Enjolras smiles politely back.

Grantaire watches them all climb the stairs, the traitors, tossing goodbyes behind them. He doesn’t turn around until the front door slams shut and he can’t hear their footsteps overhead anymore.

“Um, so that was a little abrupt. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Enjolras says. He turns the glass in his hands around by the base. Grantaire wonders if it’s a nervous habit. Enjolras hasn’t ever seemed like a person who gets nervous before. “Where does Joly work?” Enjolras asks just as Grantaire blurts, “D’you want something to eat or?”

Grantaire hopes to God he isn’t blushing, but Enjolras only smiles and says, “Sure, if you want.”

As he leads the way up the stairs, Grantaire answers Enjolras’ question; over the rustle of his phone vibrating in his back pocket, he explains that Joly volunteers at a hospice, wants to go to medical school. They cross the hall into the large, clean and always well-stocked kitchen. The expanse of white cupboards and tidy countertops seem somehow sterile without the welcoming presence of Joly’s mother, but Grantaire has been told to “help himself” enough times that he cannot doubt the sincerity of the instruction.

“He isn’t sure yet, but Combeferre, uh, my friend Combeferre has been thinking about med school too,” Enjolras is saying, as Grantaire opens the cupboard he knows the biscuit tin lives in and uses the door as a shield while he quickly checks his phone.

Joly: **Have fun! But please don’t have sex in my basement. I would have to burn the couch.**

Bossuet: **I love that couch. Please don’t give Joly cause to burn it. Also Bahorel wants you to know that if anything happens on/near/to his beanbag he will kill you. Slowly. His words. Good luck! Bx**

Bossuet: **Joly is driving but would like to clarify that his previous text is not to be taken as permission to have sex somewhere other than the basement. And politely requests that you don’t have sex in his house. Bx**

Grantaire doesn’t bother replying. He pockets his phone and slides his spoils onto the kitchen island. “Joly’s mam is an excellent baker,” he says, as he opens the tin, releasing the irresistible scent of her double chocolate chunk cookies.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, reaching into the tin. “So Joly’s parents’ are okay with you being here even when Joly isn’t?”

Enjolras has perched on one of the tall stools that line one side of the island, but Grantaire pushes himself up on the opposite counter rather than take one next to him. Facing him, Grantaire answers, “Yeah, Joly’s parents are cool. His dad is really supportive of the band. He’s a total old rocker. If he’s home during our next band practice, he’ll want to show you his guitars. He has them mounted on the wall in his office upstairs.”

“Is he not disappointed that Joly isn’t in the band?” Enjolras asks.

“Nah. Well, I mean, maybe, but if he is, he doesn’t show it. I don’t think I’ve met prouder parents than Joly’s.”

“What about yours?” Enjolras asks. “I mean, are they into music?” he quickly adds, before taking a large bite of his cookie.

“Ah, my mum is into anything that “keeps me out of trouble”,” Grantaire says, forming the quote marks in the air with his fingers. “My grandad gave me my first guitar though,” he continues, before Enjolras can ask about his dad.

“I would compliment it, but I know literally nothing about guitars.” Grantaire smiles. “It’s a nice colour,” Enjolras offers.

“Thanks,” Grantaire laughs. He tucks his hands under his thighs, conscious of his wish to fidget. “But my electric was a joint endeavour of many people for my birthday last year. My beat up acoustic has been through numerous hands before my grandad put it in mine, but she still sings so sweetly.”

Grantaire feels like something has settled back into place. Talking to Enjolras seems so much easier now, like it was when he asked him to practice in the first place. He rolls with it. “What about you? Who taught you to sing so sweetly?”

Enjolras’ mouth is full, but he raises an eyebrow at Grantaire’s question. Grantaire grins back and waits for him to finish chewing.

“My grandmother, I guess,” Enjolras says after he swallows. “I haven’t had any formal tuition, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, that’s adorable,” Grantaire says. It’s the kind of only-half-teasing comment he’d make with his friends, but Enjolras is not one of his friends. “What did she sing with you?” he asks quickly.

“Everything and anything, really. Recently. it’s mainly Christmas carols. I don’t see her as much now, but she always gathers us around the piano at Christmas.”

Hark the herald Enjolras sings, thinks Grantaire. Well, he could pass for a member of the angelic host, by most nativity scene aesthetics. “That’s nice,” he says aloud, and wishes he had said something else. “D’you have a big family?”

“Um, no,” Enjolras huffs a soft laugh. “Only child. My dad has a brother, but if I’ve ever met him, I was not old enough to remember. It’s really just the three of us, and grandmother on the holidays.”

“Are you the only musical one?”

“I’m not- I’ve never really thought about it. I guess my mother must know some piano, but I’ve never heard her play,” Enjolras answers after licking his fingers clean of melted chocolate. “What about you? Do you have siblings?”

“Big sister,” Grantaire answers. “Big big sister. 24, currently pursuing a PhD in Astrophysics.”

“Oh, wow,” Enjolras eyes widen slightly.

“Yup,” Grantaire laughs awkwardly. “Sophie’s the smart one.” Grantaire realises he has been drumming his feet against the cupboard below him and stops abruptly.

Enjolras looks like he wants to disagree with Grantaire. “I’m sure-” he starts to say at the same time as Grantaire adds, “I did not mean for that to sound so self-deprecating. I just mean- Soph wants to work for NASA, she’s brilliant.”

Now that the questioning has been turned back on Grantaire, he realises how long they’ve been sitting here. Grantaire looks at Enjolras’ empty hands and says “D’you want to head back downstairs or?”

“Sure,” Enjolras says quickly. He replaces the biscuit tin lid as Grantaire slides off the kitchen counter.

Grantaire inspects the cupboard door for scuff marks - he’s fine - and straightens to find Enjolras standing beside the kitchen island holding the biscuit tin. “Oh, it’s uh, this one.” Grantaire takes it from him, returns it to a cupboard.

 

Downstairs Grantaire thinks about offering to play something new to Enjolras, panics mildly when he can’t seem to think of a single song and blurts, “So you don’t hate that you came, right?”

He quickly continues, “I mean, if you do, at least I have the small comfort that you’re hiding it well, but if you want to leave, you can just tell me. I won’t be insulted- well, I might be, a little, but I asked you to come to one practice and try it, and you did. I can’t complain.”

“I don’t hate that I came,” Enjolras confirms. He drops easily to the sofa whilst Grantaire hovers in front of it, trying not to pace. “To be perfectly honest, I’m still surprised that I did, but it was fun, and I think I can find space in my week to make time for a little more fun. That is if you still think I’d be a good fit for your battle plans.”

Enjolras smile is wry and Grantaire feels wild with relief.

“Haha, yes, definitely. So do you wanna hear another song or?”

 

Later, after Grantaire manages to come up with a few songs he’s not too embarrassed to play in front of Enjolras, after a playthrough of Reno at halfspeed so Enjolras can jot down the verses as Grantaire sings them, and after Enjolras watches Grantaire pack up his guitar then insists on helping him wash up the glasses Joly brought downstairs; Grantaire sees Enjolras to the door.

“Do you have a key?” Enjolras asks.

“Nah, but they keep a spare,” Grantaire explains, grabbing it off the key rack by the front door. “And we just post it through the letterbox after we lock up.”

Outside, Grantaire mentions trying to find some old recordings they’ve done in the past that Enjolras could use to familiarise himself with their songs and Enjolras says again that he had fun. Which he doesn’t have to say, Grantaire reasons, they’re done. If it wasn’t true, he could just say nothing. He could just leave. But he hasn’t; he is here, telling Grantaire he had fun. As they hover awkwardly on the edge of Joly’s driveway, Grantaire plays with the strap of his guitar case and asks, “So, you gonna come back next week?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says simply. “See you, Grantaire.”

“Later,” Grantaire says, and grins to himself when Enjolras turns around and heads off down the street.

Grantaire usually leaves Joly’s street the same way, but he doesn’t want to follow Enjolras like a creep, so he walks around the opposite block instead. His stupid grin keeps him company the whole way home.

 

\----------

 

When he gets home, Enjolras heads straight upstairs to his room, but his mother calls him before he reaches the landing.

“Enjolras, is that you?”

“Yes,” he calls back, pausing on the stairs.

“Courfeyrac called, darling.” He can hear her getting closer. “I told him you’d call him back.”

“Thanks. I will.”

“He told me you were out with some friends. Nice that someone thought to.” She floats into the hallway wearing a long blue gown, her bare feet soundless on the thick carpet. Unusually, her long blonde hair is loose and flowing. Her face bears a perfect wounded expression. She looks like someone auditioning for Ophelia.

“Sorry, mother,” Enjolras says dutifully. “I meant to text,” he lies. In truth, he had forgotten she would be home today. His mother doesn’t push for details, where or with whom. She swings between affording him absolute privacy in his life and sitting up late into the night with him, begging secrets that Enjolras doesn’t have, on a whim.

“Your father and I have a dinner engagement, sweetheart. Will you be alright to fend for yourself? I’m sure I told Louise, so there should be something in the fridge you can heat up.”

“I’ll be fine,” Enjolras assures his mother. He’ll probably eat late, he thinks. Enjolras doesn’t usually snack between meals and he can still taste the indulgent cookie he had earlier.

“What do you think of this?” Enjolras’ mother asks abruptly, gesturing to her dress.

“Where are you dining?” Enjolras asks, and drops his bag to the floor. This could take a while. His mother gives a weary sigh and responds, “The Monteiths’.”

“You might as well go in pyjamas,” Enjolras suggests.

“What?” his mother laughs, confused.

“Well, it doesn’t matter what you wear - Mrs Monteith will make some sort of veiled insult about it, you’ll get annoyed because she doesn’t know what she’s talking about-” _you’ll drink too much and your irritation will turn to venom_ “-and when you complain about it to dad later, he won’t have picked up the insult so he-” _won’t placate you_ “-will think you’re over-reacting-” _which you will be_ “-which will just make it worse.”

“At least if you’re wearing pyjamas, you’ll be comfortable and you can just go straight to bed when you get home,” Enjolras reasons.

His mother laughs warmly. “Quite right, darling. Quite right. Mrs Monteith is a horror. But if Old Monty wants to have dinner, Old Monty gets dinner. Old Monty’s old money can’t be disappointed.”

“Quite,” Enjolras agrees. Enjolras himself hasn’t had to dine with his grandfather’s former business partner and his wife since starting a spirited debate about minimum wage and workers’ rights at a dinner party two years ago. “Maybe if you wear pyjamas dad will ban you from Monteith dinners too,” Enjolras adds.

“Oh, you are terrible,” his mother gushes, draping herself elegantly along the bannister. She gazes up at him fondly. “You were supposed to find that a punishment. But I suppose you are quite right. It’s dining with them that is punishing.”

“Stay home,” Enjolras says, though he knows she won’t. “I’ll reheat you some of Louise’s lasagne.”

“And send your father into the Lion’s Den alone?” His mother shakes her head, her long tresses swish with the movement. Enjolras knows she is right, that his father enjoys these dinners no more than they do; he just finds it hard to remember that sometimes.

“Mother, do you know how to play the piano?” Enjolras asks suddenly. He still has one of Grantaire’s songs playing in his head. He wonders if he could work out the notes; it’s been so long since he’s played.

“Oh, I haven’t played in years, darling, decades. I had lessons as a girl, of course,” she sighs wistfully. “I used to have a terrible crush on my piano teacher.”

“Grandmother didn’t teach you?” Enjolras says, surprise colouring his voice.

“No. Your grandmother was busier back then.” That makes sense. “What about you?” his mother asks.

“Grandmother taught me,” Enjolras says, confused.

“No, no, not that.” Her eyes are sparkling and Enjolras realises she is still thinking of her former piano tutor when she says, “I mean do you have a crush, darling? You never tell me about your love life.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I’m going to my room,” Enjolras says, picking up his bag. He ignores his mother’s pout and continues his way up the stairs.

“And if there was something to tell?” her voice follows him upstairs.

“I probably still wouldn’t tell you,” Enjolras calls back. There is a faint laugh, and just as Enjolras reaches his bedroom door, her voice reminds him, “Call Courfeyrac.”

He does.

“How was it? Where were you? Tell us everything,” Courfeyrac says upon answering the phone. “Oh, Combeferre’s here. He says hi. Well, really I’m here, since it’s his house. But he still says hi.”

There’s a rustle and Combeferre’s voice indeed says, “hi.”

“You're on speaker,” Courfeyrac chimes, quieter than before. Enjolras flops backwards on his bed and Courfeyrac prompts, “So, what happened? How come you’re home so late.”

“It’s not late,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t know what time it is exactly, but it doesn’t feel late. He’s about to pull his phone away to check the time but Courfeyrac is speaking again.

“Jehan said he saw Bahorel come home hours ago.”

“Maybe an hour ago,” Combeferre corrects, quieter.

“Still, but I called like half an hour after that and you still weren’t home. You owe me, by the way. I told your mother nothing.” Combeferre gives a pointed cough. “Okay, if Combeferre weren’t here, I’d have told her everything, so you owe us both.”

“If I weren’t here, you’d just be sitting in my room on your own,” Combeferre muses.

“I would do so much snooping,” Courfeyrac warns. Combeferre laughs and Enjolras smiles, happy to listen to their chatter. He sits up to kick off his boots. “At the very least, you owe us the story of your Band Practice.” You can hear the capital letters in Courfeyrac’s voice.

“You guys were right, it was good. I had fun,” Enjolras says. Combeferre is not the “told you so” kind, but Enjolras can picture his expression.

“Well obviously. When are we wrong?” Courfeyrac replies. “That was not a story, Enjolras,” he complains.

Enjolras sighs. “Okay, I got there, I met everyone, I sang along with a couple of their songs when I could pick up the chorus. They’re good, not what I’d listen to really, but you’d like them, Courf. Then Joly had to go to work and he was giving some of the others a lift home, so they left and Grantaire stayed and ran through some more songs with me and then I came home.”

“Wow, Enjolras, you should become an author,” Courfeyrac says, voice full of mock wonder.

“Write a screenplay,” Combeferre agrees.

“Oh shut up, what do you want from me? You asked what happened, I told you what happened. What are you guys up to?”

“Thoughts and feelings, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac urges, ignoring his question. “T&F as Miss Traver used to say. You always hated personal essays.”

Enjolras thinks of their old English teacher and frowns. “They were friendly. They are obviously a close group. They make fun of each other, the way close friends do, but I didn’t feel unwelcome. They complimented my singing. The music was fun. Robust,” he says, and Courfeyrac coos encouragingly. “Their songs tell stories, better than I do,” he adds and on the other side of the phone his best friends laugh. “I don’t think the girl, Eponine, likes me. But Grantaire was glad I came. He kept checking that I was glad I came too. I told him I’d be back next week.”

“Good,” Combeferre says.

“Better,” Courfeyrac relents. “Do you want me to beat this girl up?” he offers.

“Obviously not,” Enjolras tells him. “Also, I’m pretty sure she could tear you apart.”

Courfeyrac scoffs and Combeferre laughs, loud and long. Enjolras moves from his bed to his desk, flipping his laptop open.

“What are you guys up to?” he asks.

“Combeferre is futilely trying to prove that with enough concentration, I can understand biology,” Courfeyrac says, this time quick to jump on the change of subject.

“You can,” Combeferre says.

“You aren’t taking Biology.” Enjolras says, confused. “Are you?” Enjolras finds remembering one timetable enough work, never mind keeping track of the eclectic selection of subjects Courfeyrac had opted for this year.

“It’s for Psych,” Courfeyrac says.

“Brain chemistry,” Combeferre explains.

“See it’s not even biology!” Courfeyrac cries. “This shit can’t even decide what science it is. No wonder I’m confused.”

“Well maybe you should have taken a real science credit this year, and picked this up next year if you were still interested.”

“Ooh, fighting talk,” Enjolras murmurs, as his laptop boots up.

“You,” Courfeyrac says accusingly. “You aren’t even taking a science class this year. You, shut up.”

“It is literally costing me money to listen to you tell me not to talk to you, right now,” Enjolras reminds him.

“True,” Combeferre agrees.

“Come join us, Enjolraaas,” Courfeyrac crows. “What are you doing now? Come talk to us for free.”

“I have homework,” Enjolras begged off.

“Obviously,” Courfeyrac groans. “That’s what we’re doing. Do you think Combeferre is teaching me about axons and dendrites for his own enjoyment?”

 _Yes_ , Enjolras thinks. “Nah, I’ve really gotta get stuff done. I did spend _hours_ at band practice, remember. But my parents are out tonight, so when you’re finished playing neuroscientist, you can join me for dinner if you want. I’m sure there’s plenty.”

“What did Louise make?” Courfeyrac asks eagerly.

Enjolras opens his emails, his preferred news site and his unfinished Government and Politics essay with a few swift clicks. “I haven’t checked yet.”

“We’ll text you when Courfeyrac gets the hang of chemical synapses,” Combeferre tells him.

“But how will we reheat Louise’s chilli when even hell itself has frozen over?” Courfeyrac is questioning from further away. His voice fades to background noise and Combeferre sounds closer when he speaks again.

“Glad you had fun today,” he says, and Enjolras can tell he’s off speakerphone. “Sometimes new things are good things.”

“Yeah, yeah. You told me so. Curiosity didn’t kill the cat,” Enjolras sighs, resigned.

“Speak to you later,” Combeferre signs off. Enjolras can hear Courfeyrac’s cries of “bye” in the background.

“Yeah, bye,” Enjolras says, hanging up.

He puts thoughts of the more detailed questioning that no doubt awaits him if Combeferre and Courfeyrac do come round later out of his head, and sets to work.

 

\----------

 

After dinner with his mum, Grantaire sits down at his aging computer to try and find the old neon glove recordings he remembered about when talking with Enjolras. There are a few new messages in his friends’ group IM thread when the monster finally turns on. Grantaire clicks it fullscreen and it met with a photograph of a cupboard full of glasses.

 **WTF is this?** Joly has asked underneath.

 **...the inside of a cupboard?** Eponine has answered. According to their tiny avatars, the rest have seen the picture too.

 **oh** , Grantaire types. **Enjolras wanted to help tidy up. he washed, i dried.** He clicks send and watches as the thread updates, small pictures of his friends appearing as they read his explanation. Only Bahorel doesn’t seem to be present.

 **i couldnt find a dish towel tho so i just used paper towels. hope thats okay** , Grantaire adds.

 **Tea towels are germ factories. I can’t seem to convince my mum to stop buying them, so I throw them in the wash whenever I see one.** Joly explains.

Grantaire watches the little blinking pencil telling him someone is typing, but it stops and no message materialises. He goes back to searching through his music files and wishes he was a more organised person; there are thousands, and more than he cares to admit are unfoldered. There’s a flashing on the taskbar as another message comes in.

 **That is domestic as fuck** , Bahorel has commented.

 **thank god someone said it** Eponine sends immediately. **hahaha**

**oh shut up. its just being considerate.**

**since when have you ever considered doing the dishes, you lazy fuck** , Eponine challenges.

**well i was hardly going to say - oh no dont worry about it Enjolras. i wouldnt even have noticed those glasses if you hadnt pointed them out. we can just leave them.**

**Domestic. As. Fuck.** Bahorel repeats.

 **It kind of is** , Bossuet adds. **Even I’ve never helped Joly with the dishes.**

 **thats because you would drop them** , Grantaire sends back, somewhat unkindly.

 **Fair** , Bahorel says.

 **Probably true** , Bossuet admits.

 **of all the jokes we made about leaving the two of you alone together, playing house was not even on the list**. Grantaire can tell Eponine is loving this.

 **are you telling me if Marius turned to you with a tray of dirty glasses, you wouldnt be brandishing washing up liquid and a scourer in seconds?** he asks her.

 **OMG you don’t use a scourer on glasses** , Joly tells him.

 **Haha. Bet you’re glad Enjolras washed** , Bahorel jokes.

**i’m preserving this image in my head for all time. r finally gets the boy of his dreams alone, washes the dishes.**

**yeah, yeah. i hate you all.**

Grantaire closes the chat window and pulls up another, titled “Band Shit”, that they made after Joly and Bossuet complained about music talk taking over the group thread. **Do either of you have the recordings we made that one time?** he asks Eponine and Bahorel.

 **uh yeah i think so** , Eponine answers.

**can you send me them?**

**won’t it take your devil machine like eight years to download them? she points out. i can put them on a stick for you, bring it to school.**

**thatd be great. thanks.**

**i’ll do that then. and don’t get your panties in a twist over us poking fun. none of us would have had the guts to make a move either.**

**its not like that, its like** , Grantaire pauses, watches the cursor blink as he finds the right words. **yeah, i think hes hot, whatever, but he had fun, ep. he wants to come back. and i want him to come back, i think he sounds perfect with us. yknow?**

 **his voice is pretty great.** Eponine admits. **can you deal with ignoring your epic crush for it though?**

**if anyones failing to ignore my enjolras thing, its you guys. just keep the jokes outside of practice and i will be fine.**

**You guys realise I’m reading this, right?** Bahorel asks.

 **yeah, so?** Eponine responds. Grantaire had forgotten, actually, that he wasn’t just talking to Eponine.

 **Just checking. Seemed like a just the two of you kind of chat.** Bahorel sends.

 **well piss off then** , Eponine jokes, with a tongue out emoji.

 **wait, man, i forgot to get our math homework off you. johnson will kill me if i turn up with nothing after ditching today** , Grantaire pleads.

 **It’s just the exercise we were working on in class, we’ve just to finish it off. Which I guess means do the whole thing, for your truanting ass. pg 78** , Bahorel tells him.

Grantaire thanks him, types a quick goodbye into both the chat windows, and goes to find his bag.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have hit such a fucking wall with this thing - have a bunch of later scenes half hashed out, but have totally stalled in the actual next chapter - so apologies. That it has been almost a year since I’ve updated shames me (and reinforces why I had never tried chaptered fic before). But here, have an interlude.

They agreed to meet at Courfeyrac’s on Saturday morning so they can take one car. His mother sends Enjolras back to the den after a quick “hello” and “how’s your mother?”

Enjolras takes in the paper plates of poster paint and the brightly coloured banners drying on the floor and asks, “Am I late?”

“You’re right on time,” Jehan replies, from the arm of the couch where he has just released his grip on Marius’ chin. He wiggles a thin paintbrush at Enjolras. “Facepaint?”

Marius scoots up so Enjolras can sit within Jehan’s reach. Enjolras casts a quick glance at the number adorning each of Marius’ cheeks. “His name across our bare chests got outvoted?” he asks as he sits.

“Too cold,” Courferac says. 

“Too many letters,” Jehan says, sadly.

Enjolras obediently tilts his face up to his friend and tries to stay still as Jehan paint’s two cold straight lines one either side of his face. “Do you think they need hats?” Jehan says, turning Enjolras’ face towards Courfeyrac for his opinion. “Are straight lines alone too warrior prince?”

“Only on Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says with a grin.

“Can one be too warrior prince when facing competition?” Combeferre ponders. He is gently fanning the posters with an honest to god paper fan.

“Good point,” Jehan says, and drops Enjolras’ face.

“I’m not playing,” Enjolras reminds him.

Jehan shrugs easily. 

“We can still help intimidate the opposition,” Marius tells Enjolras, knocking their shoulders together. He looks about as intimidating as the imaginary little sister Enjolras had when he was five, but Enjolras doesn’t feel any particular need to tell him so.

“Where’d you get the fan?” Enjolras asks Combeferre, standing to join him. The two poster’s on the floor excitedly proclaim “YAY SPORTS!” and “Do the thing! Win the points!”

“It’s Jehan’s.” Combeferre tilts it towards him and Enjolras sees that it too is freshly painted, with the slogan “Feuilly’s #1”.

“Get it?” Jehan asks from where he sits on the floor, now working on Courfeyrac.

“Very nice,” Enjolras says. “What happened to our old banners?”

Enjolras distinctly remembers Courfeyrac and Jehan’s careful rendering of a magician’s wand hovering over a rabbit peeking out of an upturned top hat alongside the words “Show Us Your Hat Tricks!”

Jehan lays a hand over his heart and says, “Poor little cabbage.”

“What?” Courfeyrac laughs, and Combeferre reminds Enjolras, “They got wrecked by the rain.”

“Little Cabbage!” Jehan exclaims. “The rabbit!”

“I thought we called him Houdini,” Courfeyrac frowns.

“You called him Houdini. I called him Little Cabbage.”

“Why did you put a rabbit on a football banner?” Marius asks.

“Another time, Marius,” Courfeyrac promises and Jehan nods. “The loss is too fresh to discuss just now,” he adds.

Enjolras smiles at their antics while Marius only looks more confused. Jehan gestures for Combeferre to sit and soon only Jehan himself is without Feuilly’s jersey number on his cheeks. He entrusts Combeferre with his paintbrush to rectify this.

“Should we be going?” Enjolras asks, fishing his phone out of his pocket to check the time. “When does it start?”

“Kick off’s at eleven and yes, we should,” Courfeyrac answers. He claps his hands together twice. “Arriba, arriba. Andale, andale.”

Jehan gently fans his own face as Marius leads the procession to the front door. “‘Ferre can you bring the banners,” Courfeyrac asks, before disappearing upstairs for a jacket.

“Who’s driving?” Marius asks as they wait in the hall.

Enjolras and Jehan look at one another and Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

Jehan looks briefly at the ceiling, above which they can hear Courfeyrac rifling in his room, then consideringly at Combeferre. Considering what, Enjolras doesn’t know; they are the only two with cars. “I’ll drive,” Jehan decides. He looks pointedly at Enjolras.

“Uh, that’s fine.”

Jehan jerks his head at the stairs and mimes cocking a gun.

“Oh, shotgun,” Enjolras calls, just as Courfeyrac appears at the top of the stairs.

“You’re not driving?” Courfeyrac asks as he rejoins them, but he doesn’t look bothered by missing out on a front seat.

“I am,” Jehan clarifies. “Let’s go!”

“Byyyeee muuummm,” Courfeyrac calls as they leave.

Though easily the shortest of the three in the back, Marius somehow avoids the middle as they all pile into Jehan’s tiny yellow beetle. Courfeyrac’s curly head thrusts between the front seats as Enjolras’ buckles his seatbelt. “Do we know where we’re going?” he asks sweetly.

“It’s a home game,” Jehan reminds him.

“I’m just saying, Enjolras does not have the best navigational track record, so if he offers any suggestions, Jehan, best just to ignore them.”

“I think I know the way to our own school,” Enjolras defends himself.

“I know you think you do,” Courfeyrac says fondly.

“See if I offer you a lift ever again,” Enjolras says, as Jehan starts the engine.

“Enjolras has never taken a wrong turn in his life and whichever path his beautiful feet tread is surely the right one,” Courfeyrac extols dramatically. “For it is the journey that matters far more than the destination.”

“Not today,” Jehan says, as he pulls out of Courfeyrac’s cul-de-sac.

 

They get to the school pitches as the teams are warming up. Feuilly spots them climbing the stands and lifts a hand in greeting without breaking step in his crossover run. They wave back and Marius hefts a banner excitedly over his head as they take their seats.

The cold of the weathered plastic seat seeps through Enjolras’s jeans in seconds. Jehan must be feeling it too, as he quickly asks, “Who was on snacks?”

The unzipping of Combeferre’s bag barely cuts through the noise of their fellow spectators, but Jehan sits up a little taller at the sound. “What do you want?” Combeferre asks.

“Is there tea?”

A large thermos is passed along the row. Someone behind them sniggers as Enjolras hands it to Jehan. “Give it twenty minutes and they will be filled with regret and envy. And we full of warmth and tea,” Jehan says before Enjolras can decide upon whom to focus his reproachful glare.

“Do you want?” Jehan offers, before pouring.

“I’m okay,” Enjolras declines.

“Marius?” Jehan asks the boy on his other side.

“No thanks,” Marius answers cheerily.

Jehan pours himself a tiny amount of tea and tightly screw the thermos cap back on. He wraps his hands around the cup and holds it up to his face, inhaling with a contented smile.

“You should have worn real trousers,” Enjolras comments, pinching the fabric of Jehan’s leggings.

“I know,” Jehan sighs. “I am a racing lamb ready to have my fair fling, Enjolras. When will it be spring?”

Enjolras is fairly sure Jehan is quoting something, though he knows not what. “When proud-pied April gets dressed in all his trim,” Enjolras answers in kind.

“I suppose” Jehan sighs. He pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his cup atop them.

On Enjolras’ other side Courfeyrac ceases his rifling through Combeferre’s bag with a cry of delight. “You are a king among men,” Courfeyrac declares, pulling out a packet of peanut m&ms. 

There is a subtle change in the noise of the crowd and Enjolras realises the players have cleared the field, some taking seats on the bench while others shed tracksuit tops.

“Finally,” a girl in the row in front mutters.

The first half goes excruciatingly slowly. Enjolras has very little interest in the sport, beyond supporting Feuilly, who isn’t even starting this match. Their team have two corners that come to nothing thanks to a burly defender who would look more at home on a rugby field. Their opposition don’t even manage a shot on goal until twenty minutes in. By then, even Courfeyrac, who likes football, is somewhat slumped in his seat.

“You know what this game needs?” Jehan asks, after a throw in is passed out of bounds within three seconds.

“The final whistle?” Marius suggests, face half-hidden in his school scarf.

Courfeyrac pauses in his pursuit of catching M&Ms he is throwing into the air for himself to say, “More attractive midfielders,” with certainty.

“A rousing half-time pep talk,” Combeferre adds, ever forward thinking.

Jehan regards Enjolras expectantly. “Perhaps a certain substitution?” Enjolras asks, giving Jehan his opening.

Jehan cups his hands around his mouth and in a strong clear voice calls, “Give us a ginger.”

A girl in front whom Enjolras recognises from their English class turns around and smiles at Jehan, laughing, as Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras provide the echo, “We want a ginger!”

“Give us a ginger,” Jehan commands again, and the girl joins in as together they all finish, “with fresh legs!”

Jehan rewards Mhairi, the girl in front, for her participation in ‘Feuilly’s Bench Song’ with an offer of chocolate chip shortbread. “Combeferre’s mum made it,” he sweetens the deal.

“Mrs C?” Mhairi smiles. “Oh definitely.” Outside of the science department, Combeferre’s mother is best known for organising an annual school-wide bake sale for cancer research. 

Accomplices in their demand for playing time for Feuilly suitably rewarded, Jehan sits back in his seat, content.

Suddenly the small blue patch of away supporters on the opposite stand surges as one to their feet, and Enjolras directs his attention back to the game where a defender’s fumble when passing it out from the back has created an opening. A blue forward has stolen the ball and darted around another defender, and faces off against the goalie alone. He scores and everyone in Enjolras’ stand only further deflates. Jehan pours himself more tea.

Feuilly is subbed on about ten minutes later, notably not looking to the stands as his friends cheer. He slaps the back of the tall blonde sun-bronzed senior coming off and Courfeyrac makes a small noise of regret. “They couldn’t have taken off number 16 instead?”

“Right?” the girl beside Mhairi agrees, half turning to nod at Courfeyrac.

He nods back and flops dramatically into Combeferre’s side. “I mean, it’s supposed to be the beautiful game.”

Combeferre pets Courfeyrac’s hair in mock comfort. Mhairi laughs and her friend quirks an eyebrow at Courfeyrac. “Not that you’ve got much cause for complaint,” she says, glancing at Combeferre.

Enjolras looks at Jehan who is hiding a smile, watching Courfeyrac. “True,” Courfeyrac allows. “Feuilly is a looker,” he says, either ignoring or missing her point. On the field, Feuilly knocks knuckles with his less attractive teammate and play resumes.

“Gotta love a ginger,” Courfeyrac’s new friend agrees with surprisingly vicious glee. 

“Oh, definitely," Courfeyrac says, turning to Enjolras. Enjolras stares resolutely ahead and notices that Mhairi’s ears have turned very pink.

“Especially in the rain,” Jehan adds, eyes full of mirth when Enjolras turns to him in surprise. Jehan shrugs, unapologetic. Marius looks at the sky and murmurs, “God, I hope not.”

“Right, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac needles, not giving up.

 _You make one comment, one time,_ Enjolras thinks. “I don’t objectify my friends,” he says aloud.

“Well, there are twenty-one other fit young men running around in shorts down there,” Courfeyrac offers.

“That’s not what I meant,” Enjolras’ reply is lost as Mhairi’s friend amends, “Well, twenty.” She and Courfeyrac share a grimace.

“Poor number 16,” Combeferre says, sombrely. 

Enjolras’ eyes seek out the harshly judged forward, then the ball, which has just been snatched back by their defense and sent up the wings. Enjolras scans the pitch for Feuilly. He’s easy to follow on the field, his ginger hair clashing furiously with his crimson strip.

“Feuilly’s making a run,” Courfeyrac pulls everyone’s attention back to the game, as Feuilly breaks into a sprint just seconds before the left midfielder with a truly terrible haircut passes forward.

It connects perfectly and Feuilly drives the ball beyond the defenders. He switches foot at the last second to neatly land a shot in the bottom right corner of the goal with his left foot.

“Holy shit, that was gorgeous,” Marius mutters, awed. He waves his banner proudly over their heads.The crowd erupts in cheers and Jehan is laughing as Courfeyrac whoops.

“He scores with his left,” Courfeyrac starts, jubilant. Enjolras, Combeferre, Jehan and numerous students all around them join in with the next line, “He scores with his right!” Marius looks on delighted as the stand crows, “Number eleven makes your keeper look shite!”

There are a few disapproving parental frowns but almost as many gleeful grins. Courfeyrac nudges Enjolras and directs his eye to their team’s bench where the coach stands, failing badly to hide his smirk.

That’s their lot for excitement in the first half, the whistle for halftime going not long after Feuilly’s equaliser. Jehan disappears to use the bathroom and Marius and Courfeyrac tramp down the stairs to congratulate Feuilly. Combeferre passes Enjolras a bottle of water and offers him some shortbread. Enjolras accepts both.

Mhairi’s friend spins in her seat and asks, “Is Feuilly seeing anyone?”

“Oh my god, Kat,” Mhairi mutters, burying her face in her hands.

“Are you perhaps asking for a friend?” Combeferre asks, amused.

“Does it affect your answer at all?” Kat arches a well defined eyebrow.

“No. To the best of my knowledge, he is not. Enjolras?”

Enjolras’ mouth is full of chocolate chip shortbread. He shakes his head and gives a half shrug while he chews. “I don’t think so,” he agrees, when he can.

She nods, resolutely. She makes it halfway back around, before she shoots a final glance at Enjolras and asks, “Is he straight?”

“Feuilly?” Enjolras checks.

“Yes, Feuilly,” she says, with easy exasperation. Mhairi elbows her in the side. “Ow.”

“He is,” Combeferre confirms. 

“Okay, cool. Thanks,” Kat smiles and spins back around.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow at Combeferre, in place of commenting on the weirdness of that exchange.

Combeferre shrugs. “It’s hardly weird,” he says. “You think Feuilly’s cute,” Combeferre points out.

“Oh my god. That was one time,” Enjolras grumbles.

“You said it one time,” Combeferre agrees. “But presumably it was not only true at that one moment.”

“I don’t-” 

“I know,” Combeferre cuts him off. “As do Courfeyrac and Jehan. They just like teasing you.”

“Always glad to provide entertainment,” Enjolras huffs, and Combeferre smiles, because he knows it’s not really a lie.

Courfeyrac crashes back into the seat between them. “How is Enjolras entertaining us?”

“He’s not,” Enjolras says. “You can have that role back.”

“How’s Feuilly?” Combeferre asks, as Marius scoots past them to his seat.

“Sweaty,” Courfeyrac answers. “And lacking in appreciation for our musical efforts. Standard.”

Enjolras smiles. Feuilly has been futilely begging for the retirement of his bench song for months.

“Though he did promise he will try his best to live up to the second song and dedicate any right-footed successes to Courf,” Marius adds.

“Don’t be jealous, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac winks at him.

“I’m revoking your shortbread rights,” Enjolras tells him. Courfeyrac doesn’t look worried.

“Such a decision lies only in Combeferre’s hands,” he says confidently.

Enjolras lifts the tupperware from under his seat and waggles it at Courfeyrac. “Marius, would you like some chocolate chip shortbread?” Enjolras asks, turning to him.

“‘Ferre! How could you give him this power?” Courfeyrac cries, as Marius accepts a piece.

Enjolras tucks the box back under his seat, smug. Courfeyrac throws an M&M at him. 

Jehan doesn’t return until the second half is underway. “I think Babet is selling weed in the toilets again. The queue was unreal.”

“What’d I miss?” he asks, as he drops into his seat.

“Enjolras is a tyrant.” 

“Courfeyrac is a child.”

“It’s still 1-1.” 

“Thank you, Marius,” Jehan says. 

Feuilly doesn’t get a chance to prove Courfeyrac’s earlier anthem true, but he does manage a rather beautiful assist in the goal that takes them ahead. It’s more than enough to have them scrambling for post-match celebrations during the last ten minutes of the game.

“We can go back to mine,” Enjolras offers, “but my car’s still at Courf’s. Someone’s going to have to walk.”

“It’s not exactly a long drive, can we not just all squash into Saffy?”

“Feuilly might actually want to walk. He’s said before he can use the cool down.”

“If he’s gonna need to shower, I could take us back and come back for him.”

“We can let him decide then. Are we going to Enjolras’?”

“We can just go back to mine, saves to-ing and fro-ing. Mum’ll be at her bookclub anyway, and I’m pretty sure I could throw an honest to god house party without my dad knowing,” Courfeyrac laughs. “Plus the den is ours as always. No one else ever uses it.”

 

They settle on Courfeyrac’s and later spray a freshly-showered and chauffered Feuilly with agitated soda water.

“We didn’t have any champagne,” Courfeyrac explains, while Marius chants, “Man of the match! Man of the match!”

“I literally just showered,” Feuilly says, stickily. 

“Well go shower again,” Courfeyrac says, ushering him inside. “And be quick. We’re going to tell Marius the epic tragedy of Houdini.”

“Little Cabbage!” Jehan cries, as he locks his car.

“A sad loss, but epic seems a bit generous,” Feuilly says and allows himself to be shooed onto the stairs. That he remembers the name(s) of a cartoon rabbit on a poster he wasn't present for the creation of both impresses and baffles Enjolras.

“Escape while you can,” Enjolras advises, and Feuilly does.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know why I'm still writing this. Chaptered fic is obviously not a medium that works for me. But here I am. Humbled by the idea that there may still be someone following this. I can only apologise.  
> [Warning: there is some underage early morning drinking in this. While my teen R likes alcohol, he does not have a dependency issue and this fic will not deal with alcoholism. But warning all the same.]

Nearly a week passes before Enjolras really sees Grantaire again. They share classes, but have had no more interaction in them than usual. Life has gone on, remarkably unchanged by his decision to join a band.

Grantaire is waiting at Enjolras’ locker on Wednesday morning. Enjolras is early, earlier than his usual early. The light spatter he woke up to had strengthened with the morning light until the rain was just heavy enough that Enjolras forgave himself the use of the car. But even still, Combeferre is already sorting quietly through his own locker. His mother being one of the more dedicated teachers at their school.

Beside Combeferre, Grantaire is leaning on Enjolras’ locker, his head tucked against the door. There’s a mug of coffee held fast in his hand - not a travel mug, an actual ceramic mug, and Enjolras wonders at that, before switching to marvelling at the fact that it’s still upright when he realises Grantaire is asleep. Combeferre is watching Enjolras when his gaze finally falls upon his best friend. He shoots him a small smile.

“He was here when I got here,” Combeferre says. “It seemed cruel to wake him before you arrived.” Enjolras frowns at this, and Combeferre gives an amused huff. “What? He’s hardly waiting for me. You should just be glad you didn’t offer Courf a lift. He’d be having a field day.”

“I did offer him a lift. He shouted, “Too early,” and hung up on me.”

“A decision he’ll regret as soon as he steps outside. He’s going to spend all day complaining about his hair,” Combeferre says fondly, but lacking the component of exasperation their exuberant friend might have earned last year. Enjolras has no problem with his two friends growing closer, but sometimes he wished he was sure of in what way. He considers taking this quiet moment alone to ask; Grantaire can hardly be considered an audience in his present state. But before Enjolras can decide on how to phrase his query, Combeferre is speaking again. “See you in history,” he says, as he carefully closes his locker.

Enjolras nods and Combeferre murmurs, “Have fun waking sleeping beauty,” before striding off for homeroom. Combeferre’s halfway down the corridor by the time he picks up on the implication, and Enjolras weighs up if a rebuttal is worth waking Grantaire.

Enjolras observes the boy in front of him for a moment. 

Last week Enjolras would have said that Grantaire looks older than him, but without a guitar and a song to hide behind, he seems younger. Though, Enjolras supposes, everyone looks softer in sleep. His eyes are usually so bright and his features so animated, always seemingly seconds from a laugh, it’s strange to see them closed and still. He has a small scar at the edge of his left eyebrow that Enjolras hasn’t noticed before. Enjolras should wake him, but there are faint dark circles under his eyes and he’s breathing so deeply. Enjolras looks at the dark dark hair curling around Grantaire’s ear. Still wet from the rain outside, it looks as black as ink, dripping against his pale skin. Why is he here, Enjolras wonders.

A scraping noise and a soft slosh draws Enjolras attention, as Grantaire shifts and the cup in his grip moves against the grey metal of the locker. Enjolras gently eases the cup out of Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire turns his face towards the locker he’s slumped against and snuffles like something had tickled his nose. A small frown creases his forehead. The cup is still warm, and smells not entirely like coffee. Enjolras is tempted to taste it. The corridor is still empty, but for him and Grantaire. He takes a sip and almost spits it back out. The coffee is shot through with something that burns his throat when he swallows. Enjolras is no expert, but whiskey would be his guess. 

After deciding that Grantaire’s lucky he hasn’t spilled the drink all over himself, Enjolras crosses the corridor to the closest water fountain and empties the cup. Grantaire has barely moved since Enjolras arrived, but he still keeps an eye on him like he might topple at any moment, glancing over his shoulder as he rinses the mug and sits it upside down atop the fountain.

He crosses back to his locker and tries to wake the boy blocking it.

Enjolras clears his throat. “Grantaire.” He repeats it a little louder. Next he rests a hand on his shoulder and shakes Grantaire a little, as he says his name again.

“You- nuh- he-,” Grantaire mumbles, pressing closer to the wall of lockers. His frown deepens when Enjolras jostles him again. “You have to wake up, Grantaire.”

“M’awae,” Grantaire says, but otherwise doesn’t move.

“I need you to get off of my locker, Grantaire.” Enjolras suggests forward movement with another nudge. “Can you do that, or do I need to forcibly move you?”

“I’d li-” Grantaire starts before his eyes flutter open. He suddenly jerks upright, eyes wide, then immediately clamps them shut again with a pained “Fuck!”

He lets himself fall back against the lockers again as he slaps a hand over his right eye. “Sorry, sorry. Fuck,” he mutters. “D’you ever get like a stabbing pain when you open your eyes too quickly, like you’ve just got a papercut to the eye? No of course you don’t. No one ever knows what I’m talking about. Even Joly doesn’t think this is a thing.” Grantaire blinks open his uncovered eye and focuses on Enjolras. “Sorry. I’ll shut up. What do you need?” he asks, yawning.

“Um, I don’t need anything,” Enjolras says. _Except access to my locker_ , he thinks. “I figured you needed something from me, since you were asleep against my locker when I got into school.”

A small group of girls appear at the end of the corridor. Their voices fall quiet as they pass, Enjolras stepping closer to Grantaire to allow them room, but one of them cannot contain a high-pitched giggle. By the time they reach the other end of the corridor, it sounds as if they have all dissolved into similar sniggering.

“Shit, sorry,” Grantaire is saying. He steps away from Enjolras, freeing the space in front of his locker. “I wanted to catch you before class. But you seem like the kinda person who is definitely on time for homeroom, and I am very not, so I thought, okay, be earlier than early. But I am not a morning person.”

“Evidently,” Enjolras says, and feels a peculiar sense of deja vu.

“I even brought coffee,” Grantaire exclaims, hands grasping at the empty air. “I don’t even really like coffee.” He looks at his empty hands. “I think I lost my coffee.”

“I was scared you’d drop it,” Enjolras explains. He gestures at the fountain behind him as he says, “I, uh, rinsed it out for you.” He doesn’t mention the alcohol.

“Oh, thanks,” Grantaire smiles at him, face still soft from sleep.

Enjolras can feel his answering smile. He looks down. He gives a sharp tug on the strap of his satchel as he prompts, “So you wanted to talk to me.”

“Yes,” Grantaire says quickly. “Uh, yeah. So I know we both have a free after lunch today,” he starts. He doesn’t explain how he knows this, Enjolras notes. “And I was thinking that if you don’t have like uh, a prior commitment, then maybe we could use it to get you used to a few more songs?” He talks with his hands. Enjolras’ hadn’t noticed that before. “If- if you want,” Grantaire finishes, fanning an open hand between them, as if physically offering Enjolras the choice. He turns it into a shrug, and Enjolras thinks that for most of their conversations before now, Grantaire’s hands have been occupied.

“I know you’re a busy guy,” he continues hurriedly, as Enjolras thinks about Joly’s kitchen and the rhythmic drumming of Grantaire’s feet. “So it’s just a suggestion. No pressure. I’m still psyched you’re coming to practice tomorrow. But I checked with the music department, and they have a free room we can use, so yeah. That was it.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. He runs quickly through a couple of different to-do lists in his head: homework, student council, debate. _What does he normally do with his free period on a Wednesday?_ Nothing sets off any alarm bells. He’s horrible with remembering anyone else’s timetable, but he’s fairly sure he only shares that block off with Feuilly, who he knows won’t mind the abandonment.

“Sorry for blocking your locker,” Grantaire says and at the other end of the corridor someone slams their own shut.

Wet shoes squeak on the tiled floor as more students trickle in. Enjolras’ checks his phone. They still have five minutes ‘til the bell. “That’s okay.”

Enjolras opens his now accessible locker and swaps last night’s Philosophy reading for his History textbook. “Um, I can do after lunch,” he tells Grantaire.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” He almost doesn’t catch the bright smile on Grantaire’s face. It morphs into a yawn seconds after Enjolras’ closes his locker. “What room is it?”

“What?”

“The music room. Which one are we meeting in?”

“Oh right. Uh, you know how the corridor sort of splits and there’s that little set of stairs you go up to get backstage,” Grantaire describes, whilst drawing an incomprehensible map in the air with his hands. “But there’s a few practice rooms up there too, on the other side? It’s one of them.”

Enjolras frowns. “Which one of them?” he presses.

“Uh, the one with the really old piano in it?” Grantaire offers.

“Room number?” Enjolras asks. Any hope in his query is dashed upon the rocks of Grantaire’s shrug. “Room number forty-the-one-I’m-in-teen?”

“What if I’m early and I beat you there?”

“I’ll be earlier than early. I’m not a morning person, but afternoons. I am great at afternoons,” Grantaire assures him. “Or you could just not be early.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Great,” Grantaire says, and sounds like he means it. “I guess I’ll see you later then.”

He’s gone before Enjolras can voice his agreement, melted into the crowds of students now steadily streaming down the corridor. Enjolras glimpses Grantaire’s mug still balanced atop the water fountain. He sighs and fights his way across the flow of teenagers to retrieve it. Enjolras tucks it into his bag between his pencil case and that book he keeps forgetting to return to the library, and joins the current that will drag him to homeroom.

 

\---------------------------

 

After double French - normally more than enough to crush the spirit - Grantaire feels oddly buoyant. He sticks to his strategy of earlier than early and heads straight for the music corridor after picking up something to eat in the cafeteria. He stops by his usual table for a passing hi and bye and regrets it as soon as he takes in Eponine’s gleeful smile.

“Got a hot lunch date?” she asks immediately.

“Not a date, and after lunch, as you evidently know,” Grantaire replies and shoots Bahorel a dirty look. “You told her?”

“This is the first I’ve seen her since you told me,” Bahorel says, sliding his tray onto the table. “Not guilty.”

“I have spies all over this school,” Eponine says, like an old movie gangster. “You cough in Maths and I know about it.”

“That would require him to be in Maths,” Bahorel comments. 

“Are you skipping again?” Joly asks, alarmed.

“No,” Grantaire stresses. “I spent the first ten minutes of Anatomy complaining about Maths.”

“Oh yeah.” Joly nods, remembering, and turns back to his sandwich. 

“Geez, is anyone on my side today?”

“We’re all very supportive of your lunch date with Enjolras,” Bossuet offers. Eponine snorts and Bahorel seesaws his hand in the air, muttering, “myeh.”

“Well, Joly and I are,” Bossuet corrects and Joly nods, absently.

“I need new friends,” Grantaire complains. Joly looks around their group with a thoughtful expression, then nods. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Eponine has a half-finished frown, like she doesn’t know whether to be amused or insulted. Bahorel decides for her when he snorts into his burger. Grantaire leaves them chuckling at his expense.

 

Grantaire has misgivings about the stability of the ancient piano stool upon which he perches to eat his perfunctory lunch, but it doesn’t give way. The packaging of his uninspired sandwich crumples to an imperfect ball in his fist; the disappointed groan Grantaire lets out when it glances off the edge of the bin in a near miss is the only disruption to the quiet of this end of the school. It’s a little eerie.

Grantaire tests a few keys of the piano. It’s in tune, but he grimaces at how slow he is to pick out the notes. Now he wishes he had brought his guitar. He had stared at it, deliberating, while he dressed. But a scenario where Enjolras agreed to spend his free period learning songs from Grantaire had been difficult to imagine this morning. He said he had fun, Grantaire had reminded himself, but it is always harder to be hopeful when you can hear the rain bouncing off the ground. 

There is a solitary sharp knock on the practice room door and Enjolras’ golden head appears around it. The rest of him follows when he sees Grantaire seated at the piano. The room had felt dusty and unused before. With Enjolras standing in the middle of it, a one man magazine spread on youth and vigour, it only looks worse. 

He gives Grantaire a tentative smile that seems at odd with his arresting presence. “Sorry. I know I said I would try not to be early, but I’d finished eating and I took a book back to the library but that didn’t really take long, and you said you were gonna be early, so I thought I might as well...”

“Get this over with?” 

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Enjolras says quickly.

“I was just joking,” Grantaire says awkwardly. Enjolras is still standing in the middle of the room. Grantaire wonders if he should stand too. “But if, um, if you don’t want to be here, like if you changed your mind, that’s cool too,” Grantaire adds, using a previously unknown definition of 'cool'. “Don’t feel obligated or anything.”

“I don’t,” Enjolras says. “I guess I’m just not really sure why you want me here?”

 _I can’t think of a place I wouldn’t want you_ , Grantaire doesn’t say. “Like I said, I thought we could get you used to a few more songs, since you’re gonna keep coming to band practice...”

“You don’t have to keep doing that,” Enjolras says, glancing about the room. He pulls a chair off a small stack in the corner and places it beside the piano stool.

Grantaire turns to sit sideways on his stool. “Doing what?” 

“Checking that I’m still going to come. I said I’ll be there and I will. If that changes, I would tell you.” Enjolras sits with finality. Grantaire doesn’t know if he should feel rebuked or relieved. He settles for turning back to the piano.

“Are you going to play me a new song?” 

“I can’t actually play piano,” Grantaire admits.

Enjolras looks pointedly at their adjacent laps, partly hidden by the keybed, then back up at Grantaire. 

“I mean, I can pick out notes, just don’t be expecting... Liberace,” Grantaire finishes with a horrified expression.

“Couldn’t think of a single other pianist?” Enjolras smiles, amusement lighting up his comely face.

“I would appreciate if you could never mention this moment to anyone ever,” Grantaire says quietly, punctuating his petition with an appropriately fluked minor chord.

Enjolras gently rests the fingers of his left hand on the keyboard, without pressing any keys. His hand looks soft. Grantaire looks at his own instead. “You should have brought your guitar,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire suspects that admitting he wasn’t sure he’d have need of it will fall into the same category of questioning Enjolras’ commitment as double-checking about practice tomorrow. “I wasn’t sure we’d be able to get a room.”

Enjolras nods. He presses a key and listens to the clear C ring out. “So do you want to start with Whatever Works as like a warm-up?”

“Sure. You like it better than Reno?” Grantaire can’t help but ask. It has been so long since he’s played his music to anyone outside of his friends, and even then it’s only ever been family. Grantaire is both desperate to know what Enjolras thinks, and terrified that he’ll be too polite to tell Grantaire the truth if it’s negative.

“Not really,” Enjolras says. “It’s catchy though. It’s been stuck in my head a little.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, reflexively.

“No, that’s not a bad thing. It’s good. I sang a little bit to my friend Courfeyrac the other day, because I think it’ll be his favourite. It’s his kind of song.”

Grantaire bites the inside of his cheek to try and combat the horrifically endeared smile that is threatening to take over his face. Enjolras sang one of his songs to one of his friends. “But it’s not yours?” 

“I liked Reno best, I think, but I don’t think I should sing it, I think you should keep that one. Vocally it’s more suited to you.”

Grantaire absorbs this and nods. It is a little gravelly for Enjolras.

“I don’t think country is really my genre,” Enjolras sums up.

“I think you could rock a bolo tie.”

“Oh god. No. The boots, maybe,” Enjolras says consideringly. “Is that really lame? That I kind of think cowboy boots are cool?”

“I think as long as you are not also wearing the hat, you might be okay.”

Enjolras nods. “So I can only actually remember the chorus. Do you wanna start?”

Grantaire manages to pick out the chords for the intro of Whatever Works on the ancient piano, but gives it up for acapella by halfway through the first verse. It doesn’t suffer for it. When Enjolras comes in on the chorus, it’s clear he wasn’t lying. He remembers tune and words perfectly.

They sing through all the songs Grantaire introduced to Enjolras last week, even Reno. Enjolras arguing that just because he doesn’t think he should sing it, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t know it. Grantaire isn’t comfortable enough with this piano to try teaching Enjolras any new ones today.

 

“I don’t know how to bring this up and have it not seem kind of weird,” Grantaire says, after a while. He speaks quickly, while a quiet mantra of _he sang your song to his friends_ repeats in his head. “But I read a bit about that Lamarque dude you mentioned.”

“Yeah?” Enjolras face lights up.

“Yeah. I thought it was kind of cool how Bahorel did that same assignment about a guy who now has a band named after him, and then you also wanted to name a band after your assignment topic. It was an interesting coincidence, especially with the date thing.”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything but his smile hasn’t wavered.

“Anyway, you did kind of have a point about us technically being a different band for the battle, but the Lamarque guy’s name is a fucking mouthful. But I’ve spoken to Eponine - the sticking it to Theo thing really helped sell it, good research skills, man - and well, what d’you think about ‘The Barricades’?”

Enjolras looks suddenly embarrassed. He takes a deep breath. “I honestly don’t know why I was even bothered what the name of your band was, never mind why I was an asshole about it. I think I was just nervous, and to be honest, until you mentioned it just now I had kind of forgotten all about it? I’m pretty sure Eponine doesn’t like me, which honestly seems fair now, but I guess pissed me off at the time. So I’m sorry I was kind of a dick. If you all like ‘the Barricades’ then great, but please don’t change the name of your band for me.”

Grantaire is a little surprised. By the apology, more than anything. He thinks about telling Enjolras that if he’d backed down Eponine only would have disliked him more, but it would mean confirming that she doesn’t like him, which he could do without. He’s also not one hundred percent sure that’s even true. She may really be reserving judgement.

“Well, I like ‘the Barricades’,” Grantaire says, instead. “And it’s my band.”

“Why do you pretend it’s not a democracy, when you clearly treat it as one?” Enjolras asks, curious.

“God, I really hope we crush the National Guard,” Grantaire says. He’d be lying if he said the ‘dig at Theo’ didn’t sell it for him too. “Do you know Theo?” 

Enjolras shakes his golden head. “I know he’s related to Marius, but I’ve never met him.”

“Well, he’s a dick. Trust me, you should hope we crush TNG too. It’s for the good of all mankind.”

Grantaire punctuates his words with the closing thump of the piano lid and hops to his feet. “Shall we call it a day?”

Enjolras slowly puts his chair away, then tilts his head at the piano. “Next time, bring your guitar,” he suggests.

Grantaire has to clench his teeth to stop himself from questioning ‘next time’. “I will,” he agrees.

\----------------------

 

“What you got next?” Grantaire asks as he closes the music room door behind them.

“Philosophy.”

“Then I am going your way.”

“Really?”.

“Religious Studies,” Grantaire says in explanation.

“Doesn’t seem like it’d be your thing,” Enjolras wonders aloud.

Grantaire smiles. “I find it interesting when the things that people think make them different from everyone else are really what make them exactly the same.”

“And you think religion is one of those things?” 

Grantaire shrugs. “I’m mostly there for the art.”

“Do you deliberately answer different questions than the ones posed?” Enjolras asks, with genuine curiosity. “Do you realise you’re doing it, or is deflection an unconscious innate response?”

“What?” Grantaire asks, laughing. “Do you deliberately slide from conversation to interrogation? Or do you not even realise that is not how normal people speak?”

Enjolras draws to a halt at the bottom of the stairs and Grantaire stops beside him. The bell hasn’t marked the end of sixth period yet and the stairwell is empty. The quiet is eerie, but Enjolras knows it will be short-lived. Somewhere a clock is ticking down the seconds until their conversation is swallowed by the noise of their fellows en-masse.

“I didn’t mean to sound accusatory. You’re perfectly entitled not to answer my questions, I just meant-”

“Relax, I’m just messing,” Grantaire says. “We going up?”

“I actually need to swing by my locker,” Enjolras says. Grantaire is moving before Enjolras finishes wording a polite “I enjoyed hearing more of your songs today” in his head, but not upstairs.

“Okay,” Grantaire says easily, and Enjolras follows him towards his own locker.

“It just seemed like you made a conversational jump, and I wondered if it meant you didn’t want to answer the question, or if that was just the way your mind works,” Enjolras resumes his explanation after a moment. “My friend Jean does it a lot - jumps topics mid-conversation, and if you could see his thought processes, yeah, they make sense, but sometimes they just seem completely unconnected, and I just wondered which it was, that’s all.”

Grantaire is quiet for a moment before he admits, “I don’t actually remember what the question I didn’t answer was.” He pushes open one of the double doors that lead to Enjolras’ locker corridor and holds it open for Enjolras. “Which I guess proves it was the latter,” he adds, with an amused smile.

“I asked you if you consider religion something that makes everyone the same when those who practice it think it makes them different. Thanks.”

“Well, they do say religion is one of those topics you’re supposed to avoid at the beginning of a- when you start - um, the first time you talk to someone.”

“This isn’t the first time we’ve spoken to each other,” Enjolras says, but Grantaire waves his hand like he’s casting that technicality aside.

The bell rings and students burst into the hallway from doors on both sides; some stream out with backpacks already adorning their shoulders, others frantically stuffing sheets of paper into their bags as they go. Noise erupts from every corner; kids laughing, calling to friends at opposite ends of the corridor, hands slapping high fives as passing greetings, and over it all a teacher reminding them to head straight to their next classes.

“You still didn’t answer the question,” Enjolras says, with milder frustration than he’d expected to feel at being fobbed off a second time.

“What?” Grantaire shouts and stops beside Enjolras’ locker. Two girls that had fallen into step behind them sigh loudly before fighting their way around the obstruction they’ve created. Enjolras steps in closer to the locker-lined walls and leans toward Grantaire to repeat, “You still didn’t answer the question.”

This close, Grantaire has to look up at him to meet his eye. Enjolras watches him take a breath then take a step back, still holding Enjolras’ gaze. “I know,” he says and winks. Enjolras frowns but Grantaire just laughs. “Hurry up and get your stuff. I’m sure you don’t want to get marked late.”

“No one ever gets a tardy in Mr Ross’ class,” Enjolras says as he slides his English notes and French textbook into his locker. He slips his Philosophy text into his bag and his fingers brush the cold ceramic of Grantaire’s mug. He slams his locker closed. “You only need one classmate to pick up the question of ‘what is time’ and run,” he says, after chasing his train of thought.

“Crafty,” Grantaire says with approval. “Unfortunately Miss Calvin is not so easily distracted. But I’ll speak to her about getting my tardies recorded on your permanent record instead of mine.”

“Tardies plural?” Enjolras says as they retrace their steps along the corridor. “I’m not sure I can even be held responsible for the one you’re hypothetically about to receive.”

When they reach the stairs again the sea of students has calmed somewhat. In the social studies corridor, Enjolras has enough space to open his bag again.

“You forget something?” Grantaire asks.

“No, you did,” Enjolras says, fishing the mug from his bag. “Or I guess I sort of stole it?”

“This is mine,” Grantaire says.

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees.

“How di- oh god, this morning. Right. I forgot I had coffee.”

Enjolras doesn’t mention the suspected additional contents. He thinks that maybe he and Grantaire are friends now - he is walking Enjolras to class - but probably not friends enough for that. “I took it off you, because I genuinely feared you would drop it all over yourself. I just forgot to give it to you after.”

“Cool,” Grantaire says. “Thanks.” He salutes him with the mug, before stuffing it into his own bag. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

Enjolras nods, and scraps his drafted polite appreciation of Grantaire’s time. It doesn’t feel right. “See you,” he goes with, and smiles.


	7. Chapter 7

Anatomy is Grantaire’s last class of the day on a Thursday. It’s also the only class he shares with Joly.

“Hey,” Grantaire whispers, after their teacher has finished setting the class the task of labelling the muscles of the lower leg and listing their points of origin and insertion. 

“It’s g-a-s-t-r-o-c-n-e-m-i-u-s,” Joly whispers back. 

“I can spell gastrocnemius,” Grantaire says, indignantly.

“Sorry,” Joly says. “I always forget the C. It’s not even silent, it just looks better without it.”

Grantaire shades the muscles of his diagram in different colours for clarity, then tries again. “So Enjolras has a couple of songs down pat now.”

Joly beams. “That’s great.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agrees quickly. “So I was thinking that at practice today we would run through some of those with me really just doing backing vocals or whatever. Let him take the reigns, get a feel for it, y’know?”

“That makes sense.”

“I don’t know how to say this without it sounding rude, but d’you think you and Bossuet could not be there? Like Enjolras isn’t shy, at all, but I don’t know, I still think it has the potential to be nerve-wracking. I mean, I’ve known you guys for ever and singing you a new one still gets to me.”

“Oh.” Joly is surprised, but Grantaire doesn’t read any hurt in his expression. “Sure. Of course. Hodges gave us a ton of physics homework today, so I can make a dent in that. And you know Bossuet, he won’t mind a jot.”

“Thanks, man.” Grantaire gives him a relieved grin. “Seems so shitty to kick you out of your own basement. I appreciate it.”

“No thanks necessary. I think it’s sweet, you being so concerned that he feels comfortable.”

“Don’t ruin it, Joly.” Grantaire warns.

“I’m not ruining anything. I’m just saying that I think it is a nice thing, your consideration. Only good vibes here. No ruination.”

“Is that even a word?”

Joly frowns. “How’re you doing in English?”

Before Grantaire can reassure him that he was joking, a voice says, “Better than he is in Anatomy, hopefully.”

Joly’s expression is immediately guilty, but Grantaire only smiles and holds up his colourful calf diagram. “We were just discussing the correct spelling of gastrocnemius, sir. That C’s a tricky one.”

“Uh huh,” their teacher says, without any trace of belief, but he continues on his round of the classroom.

 

\-------

 

Joly is as good as his word. Grantaire and Bahorel have already set up when he and Eponine trail down the basement stairs, Bossuet following behind them with Gavroche on his back.

“Bossuet and I are gonna do some homework upstairs, if that’s alright,” Joly says over the slap of Gavroche’s trainers hitting the floor. He mentions nothing of his earlier conversation with Grantaire. “If you need anything, just yell.” 

Bahorel raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Eponine grimaces as she nods. “If you make a start on our physics homework, don’t sugarcoat it when I ask how bad it is later.”

Joly grimaces back and Bossuet gives the band a cheery wave as he’s tugged upstairs after Joly. This does put them significantly closer to the front door, Grantaire only realises when Enjolras comes knocking. Grantaire can hear Joly chatting away after he answers the door and hopes he continues to keep the careful orchestration of today’s set up to himself.

“Hey,” Enjolras greets them as he descends the stairs. He seems more comfortable than last week, and though Grantaire doubts that having fewer people in the room is really making a difference, he still feels himself grin. Over the nods and murmured greetings of his band, Grantaire wonders if Enjolras’ imminent arrival will ever stop making his every sense feel heightened. He suspects not; he suspects it has little to do with Enjolras’ relative unfamiliarity with the group. 

“Hi,” Grantaire says, proud that there’s no trace of the nervousness sparking along his skin in the word.

Enjolras’ face is a little flushed, like he ran halfway here then walked the rest, an echo of exertion. Grantaire wonders what Joly said to him, but there’s no apprehension or embarrassment to be found in his features. He is radiant, a picture of youth and vitality. Grantaire grips desperately at the neck of his guitar, grounding himself.

Enjolras feet don’t stop ‘til they bring him to Grantaire’s side. “Hey,” he says again.

Grantaire bites the inside of his mouth to stop from repeating his own greeting. “What was Joly saying?” he says instead, tipping his head to the stairs.

Now a flicker of embarrassment does cross Enjolras’ face. “That his mum told him to thank me for cleaning up after us and that I’m welcome back any time.”

“Haha, yeah.” Grantaire scrapes a hand over the back of his neck. “We’re perhaps not always so conscientious. But maybe you’ll rub off on us.”

“Maybe,” Enjolras agrees. “What’s on the setlist for today?”

Grantaire gives a rundown of the songs he and Enjolras have covered so far, and Eponine offers suggestions from their back catalogue that could be added.

Grantaire lets Enjolras pick their first number. He sings first lines of verses and chorus with him, but drops off as soon as he’s sure Enjolras has it, and focuses on not watching Enjolras throughout the whole song. He does note that Enjolras turns towards Gavroche at times, keeping his attention on a beat he’s not used to having. 

It sounds alright. Enjolras hasn’t relaxed yet, though it’s somewhat hypocritical of Grantaire’s inner monologue to comment. Eponine seems more straight-backed than usual too.

“From the top,” Grantaire instructs as the last chord rings out.

On the second run through, Grantaire moves to just in front of the sofa, turning to face to others and take it in, the visual, The Barricades. He imagines himself slotted into the gap between Enjolras and Eponine. They look good and they’re gonna have so much more pull with a hot frontman. Grantaire feels a little thrill of excitement.

Enjolras gives him a curious look, tilting his golden head as he sings Grantaire’s words to him.

Grantaire just shrugs back, doesn’t break his rhythm. The battle of the bands is still months away, but this feels good. It works.

Eponine is watching him carefully too. He shoots her a grin and she glances at the rest of the group before rolling her eyes, but she’s smiling.

Something seems to click, like everyone’s just let out a breath. They seem to come together on the last verse, and the final chorus gives Grantaire a little shiver.

“Okay,” Grantaire says when the song ends, pleased.

“Okay,” Bahorel echoes and Grantaire searches his eyes, wondering if he felt it too.

“What’s next?” Eponine asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

They play through a few more songs that Grantaire has taught Enjolras and the feeling Grantaire has doesn’t fade. 

After, they try to decide on another song to introduce to Enjolras, who perches on Gavroche’s bass drum while Bahorel and Eponine argue for one song over another. He looks at Gavroche as he does, a request in the arch of his eyebrows.

“I’ll allow it,” the preteen judges, surprising Grantaire.

Enjolras stays there throughout the song. It puts him behind the rest of them. Grantaire spends the whole first verse wondering if he should turn back around, like they have an audience. He doesn’t, but he only meets Enjolras eye a couple of times through the song. Even that feels like too much. It’s hard to know the etiquette for singing about being destroyed by beauty to the song’s inspiration. Grantaire can’t look at Enjolras long enough to work out if he feels anything amiss.

At its end, Grantaire can’t ask Enjolras’ opinion of the song.

Bahorel does though. Only fair since he was the one who argued for Like My Name is Troy. “You heard it before?” he asks.

Enjolras shakes his head.

“Well?” he prompts.

“It’s, um,” he shoots a glance at Grantaire but it’s too quick to decipher. “It’s really good,” he tells Bahorel. “I don’t listen to a lot of music, but in my experience songs about beautiful women tend to be reductive or objectifying. This... wasn’t. A welcome change, I’d imagine.” At that, he tilts his head towards Eponine. 

She laughs, but agrees. “I think it’s evident that she’s much more than beautiful to this guy, even if that’s the song’s focus. That’s what makes it tragic.”

Enjolras frowns. “You think his feelings are unrequited?”

This is excruciating and Grantaire is wracking his brain for a change of subject when Bahorel joins in. “I don’t think it has to be. I think that’s left up to the listener. I just think as an exploration of infatuation versus love it hits the nail on the head. Nothing cripples like love.”

Grantaire’s whole body cringes just as Bahorel adds, “It’s my favourite song of ours.”

“Really?” Grantaire looks up suddenly.

Bahorel shrugs. “I think so. It’s a good song.”

Grantaire still feels like he’s been laid open on the floor and watched his friends poke around inside him, but he smiles. “Collaborative effort,” he says.

“Damn straight,” Bahorel agrees.

“Everyone likes the song about the pretty girl who’s too good for Grantaire,” Gavroche sums up. “Are we playing another?”

“Gav,” Eponine rebukes. “I think maybe we should take five,” she tells the rest of them.

Bahorel nods and shucks his guitar.

“Can someone get me a drink?” Gavroche asks from behind his kit.

Enjolras starts to move towards the stairs, and turns his head to Gavroche.

“Don’t,” Eponine instructs, before Enjolras can speak. “He can get it himself,” she says pointedly, more to Gavroche than Enjolras.

Gavroche sighs loudly, but clambers over and around his kit. However instead of heading for the stairs, he weaves his way past Enjolras and Bahorel and throws himself onto the empty sofa. He starts playing with something, most likely the ancient gameboy he always has to hand. Grantaire sees Enjolras look questioningly at Eponine.

Grantaire asks so no one else has to. “Did you change your mind?”

“No,” Gavroche says simply.

“Is this some kind of stand off?” Eponine asks coolly. “If you want a drink, go get one. When you’re here, you’re a member of this band. No one here is your babysitter,” she lectures.

For a few seconds no one speaks as the siblings stare each other down. The silence is broken by Joly, who appears carrying a tray of glasses. Bossuet follows him, very slowly, with a large jug of iced tea.

“Your refreshments,” Joly declares.

Bahorel bursts out laughing as Eponine’s eye narrow. Gavroche has a satisfied smile.

“How did you-” Grantaire starts.

Joly and Gavroche answer at the same time; Gavroche by holding up a mobile phone that cuts off Bahorel’s laughter. “Bahorel text me,” Joly explains, sliding the tray onto a low table.

“What are you doing with my phone?” Bahorel asks, patting his back pocket. It’s Grantaire’s turn to laugh.

“Enjolras’ had a screen lock,” Gavroche answers, holding up a second phone.

Enjolras pats his pockets down and finds them empty. Grantaire knows he probably shouldn’t be laughing, but he can’t help it. Enjolras doesn’t even look annoyed, just confused. “Sorry,” Grantaire says, through his laughter.

“Catch,” Gavroche says, tossing Bahorel his phone.

“You’re grounded,” Eponine says sharply. 

Grantaire crosses to the couch, guitar lead trailing behind him, and plucks Enjolras’ phone out of Gavroche’s hands before he can throw it too. Grantaire returns it to Enjolras, finally in control of his laughter. “Sorry,” Grantaire says. “He’s a little shit. But I couldn’t- it was just your face.”

“Ah yes, the reaction everyone wishes their face would provoke - unbridled laughter,” Enjolras says but he’s smiling, and Grantaire, already jittery from his laughing fit, feels his stomach swoop.

Beyond them, Gavroche is making desperate appeals to his big sister.

“Iced tea?” Bossuet offers, awkwardly.

Eponine drags Gavroche to the corner of the room for a muttered conversation. The rest take the offered break, congregating around the sofa where Joly liberates the jug from Bossuet’s precarious grasp and pours drinks for them all.

“How’s it going?” Grantaire hears Joly ask, as he balances his guitar against an amp. It’s Enjolras who answers him. “Good, I think.”

Grantaire steps around Bahorel on his beanbag and crashes beside Bossuet on the couch. He casts his eye over the Thenardiers before asking, “Do you think we should call it a day?”

“You don’t want to try Enjolras with Troy first?” Bahorel asks and just like that Grantaire’s internal organs are contracting uncomfortably once again. He doesn’t, really, but he can’t say so.

“Actually, I was wondering if we could maybe do the first one again,” Enjolras voices, tentatively and Grantaire jumps at the out.

“Definitely,” he says, quickly. 

“I know we already did it twice,” Enjolras continues. “But I don’t think I quite- Yeah?”

“Sure,” Grantaire says easily.

Enjolras looks at Bahorel who gives a carefree shrug. “I don’t mind.”

Enjolras looks relieved, but not nearly as relieved as Grantaire feels. Bahorel stands and stretches, attention already elsewhere. Joly catches Grantaire’s eye and after passing his hand quickly between Bossuet and himself, he nods his head to the stairs and raises his eyebrows. Grantaire glances at Enjolras, who is talking quietly to Bahorel, before shaking his head at Joly, who smiles broadly.

They give the siblings a few more minutes before Grantaire gives a small cough and asks, “How are you getting on?”

Eponine turns the question to Gavroche. “How are we getting on?”

“We’re done,” he replies, sulkily.

“Go then,” Eponine dismisses him.

Gavroche slouches to the battered table and turns to Enjolras and Bahorel. “I’m sorry for taking your phones without permission,” he apologises dutifully.

“Already forgotten, little man,” Bahorel says. Gavroche gives a pointed look at the top of Bahorel’s head at the epithet. Bossuet laughs from the sofa. “You’ve still got growing to do, Gav. Give him this, for now,” he advises. 

Bahorel lifts his chin and Grantaire suspects he’s resisting the impulse to push himself up onto his toes a little. Grantaire can relate, he has oft wished himself taller. His gaze shifts to Enjolras, taller than all present company except Bossuet. Gavroche’s does too, awaiting a response to his apology. He eyes the newest member of their group speculatively.

Enjolras gives him a short nod. “Apology accepted. If you need a phone, ask. I’ll even unlock it for you.”

Gavroche looks begrudgingly pleased as he nods back, before carrying an iced tea off to behind his drum kit.

They do a final run-through of a last song and it sounds better than either of their first two goes at it, even if the drums are a little lackluster this time around. Joly gives two massive thumbs up as they finish. “You guys sound fantastic. Enjolras, I can’t believe you’ve only been doing this for a week. You were great.”

Bossuet nods along with Joly’s comments. “You guys sound like a band.”

“We are a fucking band,” Eponine says, less than gruntled, but Grantaire doesn’t hear her because Enjolras is beaming. It’s fleeting, and he looks embarrassed when he catches Grantaire looking, which is daft because Grantaire is the one who should be embarrassed by the stupid grin he can feel making itself at home on his face in response.

“Right, get out, you all have homework,” Joly says good-naturedly.

Enjolras gravitates towards Grantaire as Bahorel laughs loudly. “Do you want to hang back again today, teach me any new ones?”

“Ah, I can’t today,” Grantaire says, with regret so heavy he thinks it should be tangible.

“Oh,” Eponine says, from where she has clearly been listening in. “Here,” she says, tossing her bass lead to her brother so she can rifle through her bag. “This is for you,” she says, passing Enjolras a small object. 

“What’s-” Enjolras starts, holding it up. It’s a usb drive.

“There’s a bunch of old recordings of some of our stuff on it. Grantaire asked me to dig them up.”

That’s right, he did. “Thanks, Ep,” Grantaire says, as Enjolras also thanks her. 

“No worries,” Eponine dismisses her effort. “Will let you get more familiar with some more of our tracks without having to spend so much time with Grantaire.”

“Ha ha,” Grantaire deadpans. 

“I don’t know about that,” Enjolras tells Eponine, shooting Grantaire a small smile that makes his heart flutter. “But I appreciate it. Thank you.”

“You guys go ahead,” Eponine tells them a few minutes later, when everyone has finished packing up. Eponine’s eyes are amused as Gavroche begs batteries off Joly for his ancient gameboy colour.

“Yeah?” Grantaire asks, suspicious. 

“Yeah, I’ll wait ‘til the brat’s done,” Eponine says, watching Bossuet lead Gavroche upstairs for a hunt in the kitchen.

Grantaire turns to Bahorel, who is returning glasses to the tray on the table. Grantaire doesn’t even walk home in the same direction as the other guitarist, but he suspects Enjolras lives in his part of town. “You coming?”

“I’m on dishes,” Bahorel says, lifting the tray. “Enjolras has been making the rest of us look bad.”

Enjolras looks ready to apologise, Grantaire stops him with a hand on his arm. “He’s kidding. Though it’s a little true. They probably just want to bitch about me when I’m not here.”

“Word choice,” Eponine says.

“Complain about me,” Grantaire revises. “Sorry.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow before giving Eponine a deferential nod.

“We’ll see you next week?” Bahorel asks Enjolras.

“Yeah, definitely,” he agrees. “Have a good week, guys.”

Grantaire follows him to the door. “So how was that?” Grantaire can’t help himself from asking, once it’s closed behind them.

“It was good. Um.”

“What?” Grantaire prompts.

“It was a little weird at the start, without Joly and Bossuet,” Enjolras admits.

“Oh, yeah. I would have thought it’d be easier without an audience, given that this is new to you.”

“Yeah, so would I,” Enjolras agrees. “I mean, I’m used to speaking with an audience, but singing is different. But I don’t know. Joly is...”

Grantaire waits. They pass two houses identical to Joly’s before Enjolras continues his thought.

“He’s a bit more free with his feedback,” Enjolras says eventually, uncomfortable. “That’s kind of nice.”

“Oh shit,” Grantaire says. “Um, sorry.”

“No, you don’t-”

“No, I do,” Grantaire talks over him. “You’re a really really good singer, Enjolras, and you were great today, and I should have said so at like the time.” Enjolras is looking at the ground in front of them, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “I could say that I forgot how new you are to this, because you’re so good, which would be totally believable, because you are,” Grantaire continues, “but that’s not really true. Honestly I find it a little overwhelming listening to you sing my songs, but that’s not an excuse either. Maybe I should just make sure Joly doesn’t miss any more practices.”

Enjolras’ face is now a furious red, which Grantaire can’t even really enjoy because he’s certain his is the same.

“I wasn’t fishing,” Enjolras says, his eyes darting to Grantaire.

“I know,” Grantaire agrees quickly. “And I wasn’t- I don’t know, spearing myself upon a hook? Whatever the response to fishing is, that’s not what I was doing. I was just being honest.” 

“Okay, well, I hope you keep that up,” Enjolras says. “Feedback is more than praise. You’ll tell me if I’m getting it wrong, right?”

“Seems fake,” Grantaire says.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras’ voice has the same tone Eponine’s has when Gavroche is acting up. Grantaire wonders who cultivated it, given Enjolras is an only child.

“I’m just saying you have a very good memory for lyrics.”

“I don’t just mean the words. Some of your songs seem really personal and if I get the feeling wrong or the intonation, you should tell me.”

Grantaire thinks about Like My Name Is Troy and how relieved he was that Enjolras didn’t want to sing it and doesn’t know what to say. They reach the end of the street and stop. Grantaire wonders if Enjolras is also realising that neither of them know where the other lives.

“Don’t you live in the other direction?” Enjolras says after a pause.

Inwardly Grantaire cringes as he recalls walking the long way round Joly’s block last week. Outwardly Grantaire summons every bit of his limited acting ability to appear as nonchalant as possible when he answers, “I can go either way,” with a shrug. 

“I live in Belleville,” Enjolras says, gesturing to the right. Grantaire was right about him living near Bahorel.

“Bahorel’s down your way.”

“I know.”

“Right.” Of course he does. He probably sees him on his way to and from school all the time. “Well I’m this way,” Grantaire nods his head north. He doesn’t name his neighbourhood. He isn’t usually embarrassed by where he lives, and he isn’t now, he doesn’t think. But for some reason he doesn’t want to tell Enjolras where he lives. He feels like he’s given too much of himself away today already. “I’ll see you at school.”

“Are you free Wednesday?” Enjolras asks. “And we can do extra practice again.”

“Uh sure, if you want to.”

Enjolras nods. He pats his pocket where he tucked away Eponine’s usb and promises to listen to their songs this weekend.

“Do not expect high quality,” Grantaire warns, surprised again by Enjolras’ interest.

“Of the recordings, maybe not, but of the songs, definitely,” Enjolras argues. “Given past experience.” 

“I’m not sure I like this feedback thing being two-way,” Grantaire complains. He feels warm all over. It’s not unpleasant.

“Tough,” Enjolras says, with a vindictive smile. Compliments as revenge. Grantaire likes his style.

Grantaire hooks his hands into the straps of his rucksack and rocks up onto the balls of his feet. “I should let you go,” he says.

“Okay,” Enjolras agrees easily. “Bye.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agrees awkwardly. “See you.”

It feels unfinished, and Grantaire is struck suddenly with the desire to kiss him. To just push up onto his toes and press his lips to Enjolras’, there and gone again, just a goodbye. Instead he turns on his heel and doesn’t let himself look back over his shoulder as he heads down the street.

 _Not on_ , he tells his heart or his endocrine system or whatever the fuck is responsible for this sort of shit. Grantaire barely knows Enjolras, they’re just beginning to be friends, he thinks. Whatever desirable version of him Grantaire has built up in his head over the years is Grantaire’s to deconstruct and deal with. It is not fair to project that onto the real living breathing interesting bandmate Grantaire is getting to know. He gives himself a stern talking to for the rest of his walk home.

He thinks about Bahorel talking about love versus infatuation and feels like a fraud, wonders if his mum will mind if he skips dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, and this was a short one. But I missed my boys. If you're still here, thanks for sticking around. It means the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Bless all ye commenters and kudos-leavers, for lifting my heart.  
> I'm on [tumblr](http://asongbirdandanoldhat.tumblr.com/), if you wanna say hello.


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